“Good night, Sarah,” he said a little stiffly. He paused a moment, as if he might be about to say something else, then turned to go.
Without thinking, I took hold of his arm. “Robert, wait.” I still didn't know what to say, I just knew I couldn't let him leave with this awful tension still between us.
Prompted by instinct more than reason, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Robert,” I told him softly. “For everything. Your friendship means more to me than I can say.”
“Oh, aye,” he replied, that strange tone back in his voice. “We're good friends, Sarah. I just wish—”
Again, he hesitated, then mumbled something beneath his breath that I could not make out.
“Oh, damn it all anyway,” he suddenly blurted and, placing his strong arms around my waist, pulled me against him and kissed me full upon the lips.
It was no ordinary kiss. Certainly, it was a far cry from the sort of kiss one might share with a friend. In fact, I was completely shocked by the passion of the embrace. Unable at first to move, I felt him increase the pressure of his lips on mine, and his arms tightened as he roughly pulled me even closer to his chest.
When one of his hands circled the back of my head to lift my face closer to his mouth, I was astonished to realize that my fingers, entirely of their own volition, had slid into the thick hair at the nape of his neck. What was I doing? a small, distant voice demanded. This was nothing like the Robert Campbell I knew. Dear Lord! This was totally unlike sensible, controlled, no-nonsense Sarah Woolson!
Feeling as if the world had suddenly gone insane, I could only stand there dazed when he finally broke off the kiss. My head felt slightly woozy and I stood rooted to the spot, afraid that if I moved so much as an inch I might fall flat on my face. I was still trying to catch my breath when he abruptly turned and, without a word, hurried back into the waiting carriage.
I stared after his departing cab, waiting until my body had regained some semblance of normalcy, before I attempted to move. With none too steady hands, I used my key to open the front door, and stepped inside.
To my relief, I saw no one inside the foyer. I could hear the sound of voices coming from the parlor, but the last thing I wished to do was to talk to anyone.
Quietly, I hurried up the stairs, went to my room, and closed the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Iawoke early the next morning, still weary from yet another restless night's sleep. My natural inclination was to escape someplace where I could be alone and sort through the events of the past ten days—especially the recent episodes with Pierce, and with Robert the night before.
By the light of day, last night had an illusory quality about it, as if it hadn't really happened. Robert's behavior had been so utterly unexpected, that it would have been simple enough to think back upon it as a dream. But, of course, it hadn't been a dream. It was a reality I would have to seriously attempt to unravel. But not this morning.
Entering the brougham Eddie had waiting for me outside my house, I did my best to concentrate on the morning's undertaking. In a few minutes we would pick up Brielle and little Emma at Madam Valentine's parlor house. I would require all my wits to see us through the upcoming encounter with Gerald Knight.
That morning I had donned a woolen cape and small velvet hat against the December chill, adding a colorful scarf to my costume in order to soften the effect of my rather severely cut suit. When I had first opened my law practice, I had commissioned several of these suits to be made for me—in gray, midnight blue, and brown. Each gown was designed with concealed pockets, a tapered waist, and as little bustle as fashion would permit. All three were at once functional and professional, yet not entirely lacking in femininity. Such was the delicate balance I strove constantly to achieve in order to foster client confidence, while not appearing in any degree masculine to my male colleagues. I could not afford to forget that I was one of only three female attorneys currently practicing law in the entire state of California!
I will not deny that I was nervous. After all, this might be our only chance to sway Mr. Knight's feelings toward his daughter. It was impossible not to worry about the outcome, especially given Brielle's sudden surge of hope that once he saw the child his “heart would melt.” Not for the first time, I wondered if Robert hadn't been right after all. The last thing I wanted to do was add yet one more disappointment to the poor girl's life.
As planned, Brielle was waiting for us when Eddie and I arrived. I was pleased to see that she had dressed little Emma in a soft blue baby gown, complete with a matching bonnet trimmed in white lace that truly did bring out the clear blue of her eyes. The little girl was snugly wrapped in a lovely cream-colored blanket which, Brielle informed me, had been crocheted by one of Madam Valentine's “girls.” Hiding my surprise that a lady of the evening could be so accomplished in housewifely duties—when I could not knit four stitches in a row without dropping two of them—I limited my comments to praising the fine, intricate craftsmanship of the piece.
Because we were transporting a small baby, I instructed Eddie to drive at a more sedate speed than was his wont. Much to my surprise, he actually did make an effort to take most of the corners on all four wheels, and managed to subdue his natural inclination to pass any traffic which stood in the way of his forward progress. Even at this modest (at least for Eddie) pace, we managed to pull up in front of the large, modern-looking building that housed the Daily Journal shortly after ten o'clock, the time I had deemed optimum for finding the newspaper owner ensconced in his office.
He was indeed present, as I had hoped. Unfortunately, he was not disposed to see us, and I felt my heart sink to think that our mission was to end before it truly began.
Brielle and I stood in the anteroom of Gerald Knight's office—she cradling little Emma in her arms—while a young man with greasy brown hair, and a rather sparse beard framing a narrow, sadly pimpled face, curtly informed us that Mr. Knight was out and not expected back anytime that day. This, despite the fact that Knight's door was wide open behind the clerk and we could easily spy the owner, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, seated behind a cluttered desk in a disorderly room, most of his face hidden as he bent over his work. One item of his clothing very much in evidence was a ghastly bright yellow cravat tied carelessly about his neck. Glancing at Brielle, I was rewarded with a quick nod, informing me that this was indeed her ex-lover.
Pointing out Knight's obvious presence to the unpleasant young man was fruitless. He seemed incapable of any original thought, merely parroting back to me that Mr. Knight was out and not expected back for the remainder of the day.
Realizing the hopelessness of our undertaking, Brielle and I turned to leave, when the man who wasn't there looked up, his dark eyes fastening on my lovely young companion as if drawn there by a magnet.
Now that I could clearly see his face, I was startled to realize that he was quite handsome. Somewhere in his early forties, he had sandy-brown hair which curled about his head in attractive disorder, deep blue eyes, and a long, aristocratic nose. He was clean-shaven except for a short, military-style mustache grown atop thin, disapproving lips. Despite that bit of facial hair, and a mouth which looked as if it rarely smiled, I was startled to see how closely the man resembled the small child held in my companion's arms. Brielle had told me nothing less than the truth: Gerald Knight was indeed little Emma's father!
My heart caught in my throat to see his face soften as he appeared to drink in my companion's beauty. Perhaps, I thought, the past seven or eight months had caused him to forget how stunning his ex-mistress truly was. If anything, I imagined that motherhood had only served to enhance her exquisiteness. I wondered if he could see, as could I, her delicate Madonna-like quality as she stood there holding his child to her bosom?
Apparently he could not. Almost immediately his face tightened into an expression of unyielding reserve, his already narrow lips forming one tight, downturned line of distaste. Muttering someth
ing beneath his breath, he broke off his gaze and once again bent to his work.
Brielle and I did not speak until we had reached the street, and turning to her I was dismayed to see tears welling in her lovely eyes. I was at once saddened by this show of emotion, and chagrined that, as Robert feared, my desperate act of last resort had resulted in yet one more dashed hope she must endure.
“I heartily apologize, my dear,” I told her, feeling like a complete cad. “I should never have brought you here this morning. Gerald Knight is obviously a heartless, irresponsible rogue, who deserves neither you nor your sweet baby. The last thing I wanted to do was put you through yet more pain.”
“Please, Miss Woolson, you mustn't take all the blame onto yourself.” She forced a weak smile. “Believe me, I well understood the unlikelihood of changing Gerald's mind, but I—I'm afraid I allowed myself to pray for a miracle. I should have known better.”
“I understand what you're saying,” I agreed. “I knew it was probably a hopeless cause, yet I kept praying that if he saw little Emma, even his callous heart might soften.” I felt my anger grow as I replayed in my mind the recent scene upstairs in Knight's office. “I cannot imagine any man not feeling proud to have fathered such a beautiful baby.”
She sighed. “I'm the one who feels foolish. You do not know the man as I do. After all, I was his mistress for nearly two years. Now that I look back upon those months, I realize that Gerald Knight possesses neither the heart, nor the capacity, to love.”
She looked up and down the street. “I don't see the carriage. Didn't you tell the boy to wait for us here?”
“Yes, I did.” The space where Eddie had parked the brougham was now occupied by a heavily loaded dray, the draft horse harnessed in front contentedly chewing on a bag of oats. “Where did that boy take himself off to?”
Thinking Eddie might have found it necessary to move the carriage, I walked around the corner, and was just in time to see a tall man exit the rear of the Daily Journal building. He was pulling on his coat as he walked hastily toward a four-wheeled spider phaeton parked on the side street. My eye was instantly caught by the appalling yellow tie. The man was none other than Gerald Knight.
Calling out most indecorously to Brielle, and causing several well turned-out ladies to eye me with displeasure, I motioned that she should follow me, then turned and hurried after Knight. I caught him up just as he was about to enter the vehicle. Without stopping to consider the consequences of my actions, I recklessly took hold of him by the sleeve of the coat he had just donned.
“Mr. Knight, please wait.” Glancing over my shoulder, I spied Brielle holding tight to the baby as she made her way toward us with as much haste as she could safely manage. “There is someone you really must meet.”
Uttering several unrepeatable expletives, he started to pull his arm out of my grasp when he, too, caught sight of Brielle. He grew suddenly as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the girl as if she were some sort of heavenly apparition. Watching her approach, I could well understand his reaction. Cheeks delightfully flushed from her exertions, violet eyes bright with renewed hope, golden ringlets flying about her face in becoming disarray, Brielle resembled nothing so much as a figure come alive from a Gainsborough painting. Her loveliness was breathtaking. Apparently, it had the same effect on Knight, for he said nothing, but continued to stare at her as if transfixed.
“Gerald,” said Brielle, her voice soft and girlishly breathless. She stopped a few feet away from where we stood by the phaeton, as if hesitant to come any closer to her ex-lover. “I . . . I have brought our daughter for you to see.”
Gently, she pulled back the blanket, revealing little Emma's sleeping face. If Brielle had stepped out of a Gainsborough painting, then the baby was unquestionably one of Raphael's cherubs.
Knight did no more than glance at the child, before his eyes went once again to Brielle. Emma seemed to hold little interest for him; all his attention was fixed on the baby's mother.
“Would you like to hold her?” asked Brielle, a bit tentatively. She held the baby out to him. “Her name is Emma, after your mother.”
He stared at the child, long nose wrinkled in distaste, as if she were some sort of offensive creature not to be touched.
“No, of course I don't want to hold her,” he declared, taking a step back, and appearing fearful lest he come into contact with the baby. “Why should I want anything to do with her? She's not my child.”
I watched Brielle's lovely face deflate like a party balloon that has been punctured with a pin. The light went out of her eyes, and the pink drained from her rosy cheeks. She stopped walking toward him, and once again pulled the baby close to her bosom, murmuring soft, crooning sounds to her small daughter, as if to make up for her father's cruel rejection.
“I know neither you, nor your child, madam,” he said, his tone imperious. “And I warn you that if you do not cease this unwarranted harassment, I shall be forced to seek legal action.”
“Or sic your thugs on her again?” I said, my temper growing with every word that issued from the despicable man's mouth. “We have not been introduced, Mr. Knight, but I am Sarah Woolson, Miss Bouchard's attorney. I am serving you with fair warning that if my client is ever again accosted by your hoodlums, it is you who will be facing a day in court, and very likely time spent in jail.”
I stepped closer to the odious man, until I could feel his hot, slightly acrid breath on my face. In for a penny, in for a pound, I told myself, as I prepared to play the last card in my piteously weak hand.
“You may deny your relationship with this young lady, Mr. Knight, but the child in her arms is your spitting image. Shame on you for so heartlessly rebuffing her. You are a cad and a coward of the—”
“Gerald?” came a female voice from inside the carriage. “Gerald! Who are you speaking to?”
There was a movement inside the phaeton, and a woman's head appeared in the open door. Although I had never met the lady, I was certain from Samuel's description that this was Gerald's wife, Lily Randolph Knight. According to my brother, it was she who had brought her family's money into the marriage, and it was she who continued to safeguard the family's purse strings.
As Knight reluctantly helped his wife down from the carriage, I saw that Lily Knight was a rather ordinary-looking woman, somewhere in her early fifties, I judged—at least ten years older than her husband. She was short and stout of girth, with graying, nondescript brown hair tucked into a tight bun beneath a brown velvet hat. Her cheeks were plump and her lips as full as her husband's were thin.
Upon reaching the ground, she arranged her skirts neatly about her ample waist, then studied Brielle and me with intelligent brown eyes. She afforded me but a brief appraisal, seeming far more interested in my young companion and the baby in her arms.
“You must be my husband's latest paramour,” she said with surprising frankness. She removed a pair of spectacles from her reticule, settled them upon her nose, then moved closer to Brielle, taking in the girl's face and manner of dress with myopic eyes.
“Yes,” she said at length, nodding her head. “I can understand his attraction to you—Miss Bouchard, isn't it? You are undeniably beautiful. Of course you are young enough to be his daughter, but that has never prevented Mr. Knight from having his way with any girl who takes his fancy.”
“Lily, really!” sputtered her husband, his stricken face looking up and down the street for fear passersby should overhear his wife. “You're quite mistaken, my dear. I give you my word that I have never seen this girl before in my life.”
Lily gave him a deprecating look. “Your word, indeed, Gerald. Since when has your word been worth the breath required to speak it?” Once again she donned her spectacles, and turned back to Brielle. “Would you be so kind as to remove the baby's wrap so that I may see its face, Miss Bouchard?”
The girl hesitated, then slowly drew back the soft wool blanket to reveal little Emma's angelic face. Just as Mrs. Knight leaned
closer for a better look, the baby opened her eyes and looked directly back at the woman.
“Oh, my,” said Lily with a start. “Just see how alert she is for such a tiny thing. How old is she, three, four months?”
“She is three months old, Mrs. Knight,” Brielle answered, clutching her child tightly, as if not sure what to make of the unexpected attention issuing from her ex-lover's wife.
Paying no heed to this reaction, Lily reached out a finger and lightly tickled the child under her chubby chin, then smiled when the baby chortled happily. “She appears healthy enough. What did you say her name was? I couldn't quite make it out from inside the phaeton.”
“Emma, Mrs. Knight. I called her Emma after—”
“Yes, yes, after Gerald's mother,” the older woman broke in with a chuckle. “I'm sure Mrs. Knight would find it gratifying to know that her son's illegitimate daughter has been named in her honor. I doubt that Gerald will be sharing this news with his elderly mama, however, will you, dear?”
Her husband did his best to speak, but she ignored him as if he were as invisible as his office clerk had insisted. Her sharp brown eyes had moved to me.
“I believe you said your name was Sarah Woolson, did you not?” she asked. “Could I have heard correctly that you are actually an attorney?”
After I had confirmed this to be true, she clucked, “My, my, that is remarkable. What will women think to do next?”
“Lily, this is quite enough,” objected Gerald. “Do not waste any more time on these two and their pack of lies. If we do not hurry we'll be late for—”
“Gerald, be quiet!” Lily ordered. Her attention had gone back to the baby, and she was gently tilting little Emma's face first one way, then the other. All the while, the little girl's eyes never left the woman's face, which the tyke seemed to find inordinately interesting.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 24
