“That's because it is not a typical night at a brothel, Miss Wool-son,” came a voice from behind me.
Turning, I found Madam Valentine standing on the lower landing of the stairs. Again I was amazed that a woman of her bountiful proportions could move so gracefully. She was beautifully attired in a black velvet gown cut low at the neck to display a generous amount of cleavage, and with a waist cinched so tightly that it spoke well of her corseting, although how she could breathe was a mystery. Her thick dyed hair had been arranged in intricate curls atop her head, and was decorated with ebony combs, inlaid with what appeared to be real diamonds, rubies, and other precious gems.
“Every month, we hold a reception to introduce girls who are newly arrived in San Francisco,” she explained. Nodding her head in the direction of a statuesque, sloe-eyed brunette with glowing ebony skin, she said, “That is Cleopatra. She has come to us from Kate Townsend's house in New Orleans. That blonde coming out of the front parlor is Evangeline. She has just arrived from New York.”
“You say that you hold these receptions every month?” I asked, marveling at the organization and expense required to arrange such an evening. “Do these young women really move so easily about the country?”
She nodded. “Most don't stay in any one place for more than a month or two. That's why I work so hard to entice my girls to stay longer. After all, I have invested a great deal of time and money in their training and wardrobes.”
I remembered what Fanny had told me about Matilda Abernathy's determination to make something of her life. If one cared to credit a very active and luxurious parlor house as an indicator of success, then Matilda had indeed caught her golden ring.
We were jostled by servants making their way up and down the stairs, causing Madam Valentine to suggest that we adjourn to her office. Robert and I followed her down the hall and into a room which was considerably smaller, but every bit as expensively furnished as the parlor where tonight's soiree was being held. She indicated that we should be seated on a settee, while she took her place opposite us in a comfortable-looking armchair, once again upholstered in a vibrant shade of red.
“Now Miss Woolson, Mr. Campbell, what has brought you to my house this evening?”
“I wish to have a word with Brielle Bouchard,” I told her. “I can see that you're very busy tonight, so it needn't take long.”
She looked at me guardedly. “What has happened? Do you have news for her?”
Before I could answer Robert broke in, his tone disparaging. “Sarah has some bizarre plan to introduce Gerald Knight to his daughter. She hopes that he'll be instantly taken with the tyke, leave his wife, and he, Brielle, and the baby will live happily ever after.”
“Don't be absurd, Robert,” I said, annoyed. “Pay no attention to him, Madam Valentine. While it's true that I—”
There was a knock on the door, and Brielle's lovely face peered into the room. “Nancy said you wished to see me, Madam Valentine. Oh,” she said, noticing Robert and me on the settee. “I didn't realize you and Mr. Campbell were here, Miss Woolson.”
“Sit down, Brielle,” the older woman told her. “Miss Woolson has something she would like to discuss with you.” She rose and indicated that Brielle should take her seat in the red upholstered armchair. “If you will excuse me, Miss Woolson, Mr. Campbell, I have a great number of things to attend to before our first guests arrive.” With that, the woman swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“What is it you wish to tell me?” Brielle asked, after she had seated herself on the edge of Madam Valentine's chair. “Does it have to do with the lawsuit?”
I felt Robert draw in breath and spoke quickly, before he could blurt out the purpose of our visit, along with his negative view of the plan.
“I'm sorry to bear discouraging news, Brielle, but there is simply no way we can take your case to trial.”
“Because we cannot prove that Gerald is Emma's father,” she said with a sigh of resignation.
I nodded. “Even if we could somehow convince Mr. Knight's men to testify that you entertained no male visitors except their employer, we would still have a difficult time proving that you did not once slip out of the house unobserved during the entire time you lived in the home. And realistically, I doubt we could ever persuade those roughs to take our side against the man who pays their salaries.”
She smiled wanly, trying without notable success to disguise her disappointment. “Please, Miss Woolson, do not distress yourself. You have been wholly honest with me since my first visit to your office. I see now how naïve I was to believe I could protect myself from a man like Gerald Knight. He must have had a good laugh over that silly contract I insisted he sign, knowing full well that it would never hold up in a court of law.”
“You were only trying to protect yourself,” Robert told her gallantly. “That man is the worst sort of cad.”
“Yes,” she agreed in a small voice. “I know that now. In the beginning, he appeared to genuinely care for me. He bought me beautiful clothes, settled me in a lovely home, saw to my every need. In a way, I think I gradually grew to return his love, or what I imagined to be his love. Now, of course, I know better, and I shall have to accept the consequences of my foolish choices.”
I leaned forward in my seat. “I don't want to unduly raise your hopes, my dear, but there is one thing more we might try.”
“Really, Miss Woolson, what do you have in mind?”
Robert harrumphed, but surprised me by managing to keep his misgivings to himself.
“I wonder, Brielle, has Mr. Knight ever seen his daughter?”
“No, he hasn't.” She looked at me questioningly. “Why? Have you been in touch with Gerald? Has he asked about Emma?”
“I haven't contacted Mr. Knight,” I told her. “But it occurs to me that he has gotten off far too easily in this affair. If, as you say, he has never seen Emma, then it has been simplicity itself for him to pretend that she doesn't exist.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, although in milder tones than I might have expected, Robert put in, “Sarah has some absurd idea that you should confront Knight with his daughter.”
Brielle looked at him in surprise. “You mean introduce Emma to her father?” She sat quietly for a moment pondering the idea, then turned to me in obvious enthusiasm. “But that does not strike me as the least bit absurd. It's true that he has never set eyes upon her. Once he has, perhaps he will no longer be so eager to abandon her.”
I was taken aback by the renewed hope I saw shining in the girl's eyes. So, apparently, was Robert, for he said, “My dear, you mustn't get your hopes up. Given Mr. Knight's reputation, this meeting is not likely to alter his behavior toward the child.”
“I understand what you're trying to say, Mr. Campbell,” Brielle said, her excitement seemingly unaffected by his warning. “But Miss Woolson is correct, it is something we must try. I feel that if Gerald can but see Emma, there is a good chance that his heart will melt.”
Robert gave me a pointed look, but with effort managed to keep his views on Gerald Knight's alleged ownership of a heart—much less one capable of melting—to himself. I, too, was concerned that he was right, and that I had fostered false hope in the girl.
“I know just how I will dress her,” Brielle chattered on. “She has a little blue dress that will bring out the color of her eyes. Emma looks a great deal like her father, you know, even Madam Valentine agrees. Surely he will see the resemblance and be forced to admit that she is his daughter!”
Despite our efforts to make the girl view tomorrow's meeting with Knight more realistically, Brielle fairly danced out of Madam Valentine's office, still planning how she might present the baby to her father in the most favorable light.
Robert and I followed in her wake, to find the first guests of the evening already being shown into the parlor. Inside the room, musicians were playing a lively tune, and the sound of men and women's laughter was accompanied by a strong odor o
f tobacco and expensive whiskey. It seemed that Miss Valentine's monthly reception was off to a good start.
Robert appeared so subdued when we left the parlor house that I suggested we partake of a quiet dinner at a small restaurant I had noticed upon our first visit to Madam Valentine's establishment.
“I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Robert,” I apologized, feeling responsible for his dour mood. After we were seated at a table and presented with menus, I went on, “I insist on paying for dinner. It's the least I can do.”
“You'll do no such thing!” he declared. “That law firm of yours is barely keeping its head above water. At least I'm bringing in a steady salary.” He picked up his menu, then placed it back down on the table. “And while I may not approve of this business with Miss Bouchard and that Valentine woman, I would never allow you to visit a place like that on your own. Of all the ridiculous ideas.”
His expression was so earnest I felt a sudden surge of gratitude. “Robert, despite all your grousing and hovering over me like a mother hen, I am truly thankful to have you as a friend. No matter how much you disapprove of some of the cases I accept, or the way I manage them, I know I can count on you to be at my side when I most need you.”
His startled expression gave way to one I couldn't fathom. The way he was looking at me, his blue-green eyes staring into mine as if he were trying to burrow his way inside my mind, was disconcerting.
“Oh, aye. I hope that I am a good friend to you, Sarah,” he said, his voice soft yet strangely intense. He started to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. Muttering unintelligibly, he broke off his scrutiny and once again raised the menu.
When we had ordered, Robert sat back in his chair, seemingly more relaxed than when we had entered the restaurant. I knew him well enough, however, to recognize the line of tension between his eyes, and the way he had pulled his mouth into a taut line. Guessing, incorrectly, as it turned out, that his unrest stemmed from our return visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie, and made no comment. Instead, I quietly sipped my wine and examined our surroundings, along with our fellow diners.
The restaurant, which called itself the “Black Bull,” was of moderate size, and decorated in an overstated Wild West motif. Every wall contained paintings of mountains, valleys, and deserts, all of them depicting animals in their natural habitat. Above a large brick fireplace—its flames providing a welcome warmth from the cold outside air—had been hung the head of a massive black bull, its huge horns towering halfway to the ceiling. Most of the tables around us were occupied, and at the far end of the room, a raised, circular stage held a piano and sufficient space for a small musical group. Although the stage was currently unoccupied, I wondered if we would be treated to some sort of entertainment.
“Did you enjoy the theater?”
Robert's question took me by surprise. “Excuse me?” I said, turning in my seat to find him once again regarding me with those curiously probing eyes.
“I asked if you and Pierce Godfrey enjoyed the theater last Friday night?”
“Yes, very much,” I replied. “It was a splendid production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.”
“How long will Godfrey be in town?”
“He didn't say, although I'm sure he'll stay through the holidays, at least.” I studied his face, trying to make sense of his odd expression. I had expected him to go on about tonight's business at the brothel. Instead, he was asking me questions about the theater. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, then said evasively, “No particular reason. I was just wondering.”
As I have stated on more than one occasion, I cannot abide ridiculous verbal sparring. “Robert, why don't you simply tell me what's bothering you?”
He started to speak, but was interrupted by the waiter bringing our food. I waited until the man had left, but when Robert showed no signs of returning to my question, I prompted, “Come now, Robert, what is it? Why are you behaving so peculiarly?”
He shifted in his chair, but still seemed reluctant to speak. Then, visibly gaining courage, he blurted, “Just how important is that man to you, Sarah?”
I regarded him quizzically. “What man?”
“Pierce Godfrey, of course.” He was looking at me in exasperation. “Who else would I mean?
“I don't understand. Why would you ask me a question like that? Pierce is a good friend, of course. I'm certain he would like to be your friend, as well, if you treated him more civilly.”
He kept his eyes fixed on mine. “Are you sure he doesn't mean a good deal more to you than just a friend?”
“More than a friend—? Robert, what in the world are you getting at?”
“Oh, for God's sake, woman, open your eyes. The man is in love with you. You can't be that blind to his feelings. He may be a rogue, and for all I know a thief on the high seas, but when it comes to you he wears his heart on his sleeve.”
I felt my face flush. This was the last thing I'd expected Robert to say. I had been careful never to mention Pierce's marriage proposal to anyone, not even Samuel, and above all, not to my parents. Nor had I divulged his plans for our future, the future I could not imagine us ever sharing.
I was fumbling about trying to think of some way to respond to this startling statement, when Robert cleared his throat and went on, “I see that I have upset you, and I'm sorry. It was not my intention.”
“Was it not?” I replied, anger beginning to replace my shock at his temerity. “It's my turn to wonder at your own naïveté, Robert, if you truly did not expect such a personal, and uncalled-for, remark to cause me distress. Moreover, I do not see how my friendship with Pierce Godfrey can be any of your concern.”
“I have apologized for irritating you, Sarah, but I stand by my words.” His own temper was rising, and his voice had grown so loud that a couple at the next table turned to stare at us in disapproval. “Of course Pierce Godfrey is in love with you, any idiot can see that. Furthermore, however much you try to deny it, it's clear from your face that you're every bit as aware of his feelings as am I. And I consider it to be very much my business, if you must know.”
“Please,” I hissed, “lower your voice. You're making a spectacle of yourself. What has gotten into you anyway?”
Instead of answering my question, he went on with his diatribe, this unusual show of emotion causing his craggy face to mottle with color. “I may not always agree with your tactics, but I have long considered you to be an intelligent and practical woman, not vulnerable to a handsome face and a flattering tongue. You should see yourself when you're in the presence of that blackguard. It's—it's disgusting! It is almost as if the man has cast some kind of spell over you.”
“That is entirely enough, Robert,” I warned him, discomfited to note that even more diners had turned in their chairs and were looking in our direction. Lowering my voice, I went on, “You're allowing your imagination to run away with you, and it is most unbecoming. I assure you that Mr. Godfrey has not cast a spell over me. The very idea is ludicrous.”
I stared at him over the candlelight. “I realize that you do not approve of Pierce, but why are you making such a fuss simply because he and I attended the theater together? And what do you mean by saying that it is very much your business?”
His angry expression changed to one of chagrin, as if he had stuck his foot in his mouth, and was without a clue how best to pull it out again.
“I, ah—As you just admitted, I'm your friend,” he answered, rather lamely in my estimation.
“Robert, you're making no sense whatsoever. Tell me what is really on your mind.”
He made a move as if to stand up, then, remembering where he was, sank back down in his seat. Robert is a restless man, especially when he is under duress. I knew by the tight set of his jaw that he was longing to be on his feet, pacing the room, perhaps, if that were possible. Then, as if set free by the opening of a floodgate, the words came tumbling out.<
br />
“You should know by now how much I care for—That is, you surely must realize the nature of my feelings for, for—” He ran a large hand through his coarse red hair, causing it to stand up in little clumps like a field of sun-ripened cornstalks. “You're a stubborn, opinionated, often reckless woman, but I find myself hopelessly in—” He gulped uncomfortably, and came to an abrupt halt. “Blast it all, Sarah, I just—well, I just don't want to see you make a fool of yourself over that scoundrel.”
I found myself incapable of uttering a single word; all I could do was sit there and stare at him. What in the world was he going on about? Why was he behaving so strangely?
Before I was forced to reply to this astonishing speech, the room was suddenly filled with the sound of piano music. I looked toward the small stage, to see a man seated at the piano, his fingers lightly tripping over the keys. An attractive young woman with a bright head of red hair stepped out from behind the piano, and after a spate of polite applause from our fellow diners, began to sing.
I was so bowled over by Robert's words, and the need to say something, anything, to break the awkward silence that hung between us, that I foolishly blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
“That singer could be your sister, Robert. Her hair is the same color as yours.”
He regarded me as if I had suddenly lost the use of my faculties. “That singer cannot be an inch over five feet tall, if that. I am six feet four inches. My two sisters are at least five feet nine or ten in their stocking feet. And as to that woman's hair color, if it didn't come straight out of a henna bottle, I'll eat my hat.”
His eyes went again to the tiny singer, then came back to me. Once again, it was impossible to read his expression. “Oh, and it's nice to know that my hair reminds you of an overripe pumpkin patch.”
The remainder of dinner was strained; the cab ride home seemed interminable. When we finally reached my house, Robert silently assisted me out of the cab, then walked me to the door. Even in the dim spill of light from the gas lamp, I could tell that he was still disgruntled over what had happened at dinner. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I could possibly say that would make everything all right between us again.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 23
