“Good heavens,” said my brother Charles. “I've read a few of Fearless's articles, and found them rather good. So they were written by you, Samuel? Well, I'll be dashed!”
Henrietta was regarding Samuel as if he had suddenly transformed into a two-headed serpent. “This is really too much! It is bad enough we are forced to put up with Sarah's antics, but a reporter in the family? No, that is going too far. It is not to be tolerated.”
“I rather think we've been unknowingly tolerating it for the past five years, Henrietta,” Papa informed his daughter-in-law. “What do you have to say for yourself, Samuel?”
My brother's face had turned a sickly puce color. “How did you find out?” he asked Papa, his tone none too steady.
“A better question might be why I didn't find out about it sooner,” Papa replied. “Apparently, I am one of the last people in the city to learn that my youngest son has a secret identity. When were you planning on telling me the truth, son? Before or after I succeeded in making a complete fool of myself in front of Arthur Cunningham?”
I had never seen Samuel look so mortified. “I . . . that is, I planned on telling you after the holidays.”
“Does that mean you've come to your senses, then, and will enter Cunningham's firm after you've passed your bar exams?” Papa demanded. “You did sign up to take them, didn't you, Samuel? Or is that yet another of your lies?”
“No, Father, I did sign up to take them in February,” Samuel told him. “I've been, ah, studying a good deal to get ready.”
“I imagine you have, if you haven't opened a law book in over five years,” Papa told him. Frederick started to say something, but Papa motioned him to hold his tongue. “This is between Samuel and me, although I thought the rest of the family had a right to know. Since I'm sure you must already be aware of the situation, Mr. Campbell—as well as you, Sarah—I saw no reason not to address the matter openly.”
Robert nodded, but wisely kept silent. I thought my mother, Charles, and Celia looked intrigued by this revelation, while Frederick and Henrietta appeared scandalized.
“All right, son,” Papa went on. “Let's get down to brass tacks. If you've been working as a crime reporter for five years, you must find something to like about the job—although I cannot imagine what it could be. Are you going to squander your education and spend your life appealing to prurient public curiosity? Or will you take the position with Cunningham and Brill?”
Samuel looked uncertain, an expression that seemed oddly out of place on his face, given his usual self-confidence.
“Papa, he's a talented reporter,” I said after an awkward silence. “Moreover, it's a job he loves. He's only kept it a secret because of your low opinion of journalists.”
“A very sound opinion, too,” put in Frederick. “I cannot believe you've been writing this drivel since you graduated from law school.”
To my surprise, Robert cleared his throat and said, “It's hardly drivel, Senator Woolson. Sarah is right, Samuel is an accomplished writer.”
Frederick regarded my colleague with ill-disguised derision. “I hardly think it is your place to comment, Mr. Campbell. As my father said, it is a family matter.”
Robert's face reddened. When he spoke I noticed his Scottish burr had become considerably more pronounced. “I appreciate that, Senator. However, I cannot sit here tamely holding my tongue while Samuel is disrespected. I agree with many of your father's concerns about popular journalism, but believe me, your brother is far and away the most accomplished and respected reporter in this city. Not only that, but I consider him to be a good friend.” As if suddenly aware that he had everyone's attention—and that, moreover, he was verbally dueling with a state senator—Robert sputtered into uncomfortable silence.
Samuel gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Robert. I'm not sure I deserve such praise, but I'm indebted to you for saying it.”
“I agree, Father,” said Charles. “Samuel's stories are first-rate.”
Celia kissed her husband's cheek and smiled at Samuel. “I haven't read them myself, but I'm sure they're quite excellent.”
Frederick looked as if he were about to burst. “Of all the preposterous—”
“Frederick, please,” Papa interrupted, then turned back to Samuel. “It seems you have a number of staunch supporters, son. But I want to hear the decision from you. What is it to be? How do you intend to earn your livelihood—the law, or journalism?”
Samuel looked from me to Robert, then to Charles and Celia. Even Mama was smiling at him, clearly ready to accept whatever path he chose.
“I want to continue working as a journalist, Father. I don't think I could bear sitting in a stuffy office all day dealing with people's legal problems. Being a reporter is exciting and fulfilling. I can't imagine doing anything else with my life.”
Papa did not immediately respond, but sat studying his son as if truly seeing him for the first time. After several long moments, he sighed. “I'll not force you to do something you would hate just to please me,” he said quietly. “I admit that I'm disappointed, and I still hope you'll change your mind, but in the end it's your choice. But writing for a newspaper—” He could not hide his displeasure.
“He's also writing a book, Papa,” I put in, knowing that he would find this a more acceptable endeavor than journalism. “Samuel is writing a book about crime in San Francisco since the Gold Rush days.”
“Oh, Samuel,” said Mama, looking pleased. “Are you really?”
Papa eyed Samuel speculatively, then shook his head in resignation. “All right, son, you win. It seems we're to have a writer in the family whether we care to have one or not.”
“Look at it this way,” said Samuel, a smile of obvious relief lighting his handsome face. “We already have a judge, a lawyer, a state senator, and a doctor. Why not a writer? Just to balance things out in the family.”
Thank you for coming to Samuel's defense earlier, Robert,” I said, walking him to the door.
It was nearing ten o'clock, and the night had turned cold, yet I felt an agreeable warmth remembering the brave way Robert had stood up to a state senator and a superior court judge. What the gruff Scot lacked in social niceties, he more than made up for in staunch loyalty to his friends.
Standing in the open door, he turned up his coat collar and donned his hat. “Samuel is a fine writer. I thought your father should know.”
“As well as Frederick,” I said, smiling. “Did you see his face when you told him Samuel was the most respected reporter in town? You were wonderful.”
Although the foyer was dimly lit, I thought I saw him flush at this praise. “Samuel looks as if a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders.”
“He's been dreading this day for five years. I'm grateful you were here to help support him. And I think my mother is secretly pleased. She did a bit of writing herself in her younger years.”
“She did? That must be where Samuel gets his talent.”
He seemed about to say something else, then looked up above my head. With a broad smile, he leaned down and kissed me.
“The mistletoe,” he said when I regarded him in surprise. “There's some hanging above the door. You must have forgotten to take it down after the Christmas party.”
“Oh,” I said, following his gaze. “It's an old Norse tradition, you know. Someone told me that it's bad luck to ignore the custom.”
“Really,” he said with a smile. “Well, then, I think it's a good idea to try it again, don't you? Just in case we didn't get it quite right the first time.”
I returned his smile. “Yes, the Norse are usually very accurate about this sort of thing.”
And standing on my tiptoes, I reached up and kissed him.
Just in case.
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Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 35
