by Susan Wiggs
“Somebody with a lick of sense. Hold still now. I swear, this’ll never heal up right, you keep running around getting yourself into trouble. You rest today, hear me?”
“I’m bored with resting.”
“Then do something useful, ’stead of getting yourself chased by bad company.”
“And what do you consider useful?”
“You could help out at the Rescue League,” Delta suggested. “They always need help there.”
Isabel suspected an ulterior motive to Delta’s suggestion, but she didn’t question her.
“I’m on my way down there just as soon as I finish with you,” Delta continued. “We’re inoculating for smallpox.”
“I don’t know much about that, except that you wound people and then infect the wound with the pox.”
“And it works, just like a plain miracle. Once you’re feeling better, you come on and help out.”
“I haven’t the first idea of how to inoculate someone.”
“’Course you don’t. There’s plenty of other work to be done. I reckon you’d find something to do with yourself.”
After Delta left, Isabel drew her knees up to her chest and passed her hand over a long-healed scar on the inside of her lower arm. Along with learning to read the scripture, smallpox inoculation was one of her few useful acquisitions from the workhouse. The masters didn’t protect the inmates out of any particular compassion, but out of fear that the disease might deprive them of their stock-in-trade—cheap child labor for the looms and mines of England’s underclass. At any rate, inoculation was a remarkable concept, thought Isabel. A deadly virus was applied to a small wound in the arm, and in fighting off the infection, the body armed itself forever against contracting the disease.
She wondered if it was possible to fall just a little bit in love with someone, then heal from that and move on, never vulnerable to the affliction again. Her mind drifted dreamily to the previous night, and she relived the surprise and delight of his kiss. His soft lips and gentle touch had made her giddy with wanting more, and she’d nearly wept when he let her go. Now all she could think about was seeing him again, touching and tasting him again. She’d never be immune, she realized. Try as she might, she could not pull back or turn away from him. Each moment, even when he wasn’t around, she felt herself falling a little deeper into the startling adventure of loving him. That, more than anything else, was why she’d run. And ultimately, it was why she’d come back.
Something had happened between them last night. Something had changed. Whether he meant to or not, he had cracked open a door. She knew she should not go in. But oh, how she wanted to. She wanted to see what awaited there, what kind of man Blue was. Yet she knew forcing the door to open wider could change both their lives in ways they weren’t ready for. She thought she knew herself rather well, but she wasn’t sure she was willing to risk her most private self. Or what she expected in return if she dared.
Maintaining her best behavior, she finished every bite of the luncheon provided by Mrs. Li. She even tried to take a nap afterward, but her mind wouldn’t rest. The encounter the previous night only proved that her instincts were sound. It was time to move on. But for now, she would have to stay here, getting her heart entangled with a man who had very little of his own heart to share.
“I’m not even fooling myself,” she murmured peevishly. “I don’t have to stay here. I want to.” Abandoning sleep, she decided to get dressed and do something—anything—with herself. Perhaps Delta was right. She should serve her fellow man at the Rescue League. Side by side with Dr. Calhoun.
Seeking a distraction, she searched the dressing room for further clues about Sancha Montgomery Calhoun, as though secrets lingered in the outmoded gowns and scarves and hats stored there. Oh, Sancha, she thought, trying on an oyster-colored velvet glove. I wish you could explain his heart to me. I wish you could tell me what it’s like to be loved the way he loved you.
She had taken to carrying on the occasional internal dialogue with his dead wife, finding an odd comfort in sharing bits of Sancha’s former life. What was it about her that had made Blue love her enough to mourn her for a decade? What was the source of her hold on his heart?
Restless with unanswerable questions, she flung aside the glove, fled the dressing room and stood in front of a tall bookshelf. Despite the things she had in common with Sancha Montgomery Calhoun, she definitely didn’t share her taste in reading matter. Winthrop’s Ladies Annual. The Virtuous Heart. Canon of the Saints. Morality tales and religious tracts. “I’m too old to learn those lessons now,” Isabel said as she hurried downstairs. Mrs. Li had gone to the joss house she frequented in Chinatown and Bernadette was outside beating the rugs. Isabel had the house to herself.
She knew she’d have better luck finding something to read in the downstairs library. She stood in the middle of the overtly masculine room, inhaling the evocative smells of leather and ink, running her finger along the spines of the shelved books. Blue’s interests ranged from Gray’s Anatomy to the works of Mark Twain to several editions of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. She took an unexpected pleasure in thumbing through the volumes, wondering if his hands had touched where she touched, if his eyes fell on the same phrases she was seeing now.
Dear heaven, she thought. This is getting desperate. Handling his books excites me.
In her perusal, she came to a broken-spined volume, creased in one spot. Curious, she took down the book. In gold lettering pressed into the calfskin binding was the title The Reawakening by Henry Monmouth, Esq. It was an imaginary tale of a virtuous woman put to death by an evil king. Aided by some magical alchemy, the hero brought her back to life, but sacrificed himself in the process.
Filled with growing melancholy, Isabel imagined this book in Blue Calhoun’s hands as he read the story over and over again, filled with regrets and wishing he could change history and bring a woman back to life, even if it cost him his own.
In the hall, she heard a commotion of voices and nearly dropped the book. She quickly stuck it back on the shelf and went to investigate. She followed the sound of voices to the parlor.
It was the prettiest room in the house, but also the least used. It had a fine upright piano and was filled with antique furnishings, its windows framed by a fall of velvet drapes. The longest wall was dominated by a handsome marble fireplace, over which hung a large bridal portrait of Sancha Calhoun. She had a round, solemn face of surpassing beauty, and wore a dress erupting with ornate lace. In her smooth hands she held a white-bound Bible and a strand of pearl rosary beads. Under the portrait, on the mantel shelf and side shelves, were many more portraits, mostly photographs, of his late wife. He was in some of the pictures as well, laughing and carefree, an entirely different person from the man Isabel knew.
Ignoring the pictorial shrine, Lucas and two other young men stood by the piano, arguing in good-natured fashion. Isabel lingered outside the door, unnoticed and bemused, watching them.
“You should have paid attention in class,” said the taller boy. “The mazy dance always starts off with the right foot stepping sideways.”
“No, you step forward,” said the stocky one. “Look, I’ll show you.” He stumbled a bit on the edge of the carpet.
Sensing someone behind her, Isabel turned to find June Li approaching with a tray of refreshments. “They’re going to the charity dance,” the girl explained, “and they’re worried about disgracing themselves.”
“As well they should be,” said Isabel, eyeing the stumbling boys.
They noticed her then, their faces turning various shades of red. Even so, Lucas wore a grin of sheer delight. Unlike his father, he had no conflicted feelings about her presence in this house.
“Hello,” she said.
“It’s good to see you, Miss Isabel. I was afraid you’d left.”
“Why would that make you afraid?”
His ears deepened a shade. “Not afraid. I was worried that you might not be well enough to be up and abou
t. I feared you might hurt yourself again.”
He was much more his father’s son than he realized, she thought. “You should never worry about me.”
“Why not?”
She bit her lip, trying to think of an amusing remark to dismiss the question. “I’ve never known worry to be of use to anyone, least of all the worrier.” She smiled at the two gape-mouthed visitors. “Hello.”
“Miss Fish-Wooten,” Lucas said, “please allow me to introduce Frank Jackson and Andrew Haas.”
She greeted them while June set down the tray of lemonade. “It appears you’re practicing your ballroom dancing,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Frank and Andrew were as endearingly awkward as only adolescent boys could be. Frank was short and Andrew tall. Both seemed intrigued by her, and she wondered what Lucas had told them. That she was an uninvited guest? An outlaw on the run? A lady adventurer?
“You’re in luck, gentlemen,” she informed them. “It just so happens I am an expert when it comes to dancing.” This, at least, was the truth. She made it a point to learn all the popular fashions, from card games to the latest dances. Looking from one hopeful face to the next, she said, “I trust one of you ne’er-do-wells can give us a little accompaniment.”
Andrew shuffled over to the piano and folded his long frame onto the fringed stool. His big gangling hands hammered the keys with no art, but he pounded out a recognizable rendition of “In a Sylvan Glade.” Isabel positioned herself in front of a still-blushing Frank and partnered Lucas with June, pretending it was a random pairing. She tried not to smile at the way they gazed at one another.
For the next hour, she helped them stumble and then step their way through three separate dances—the mazy, the waltz and a simple schottische. Like all young people, they were quick to learn and quicker to laugh. How fresh the world must look through their eyes, she thought, a place of endless possibilities and limitless pleasure.
For Isabel, there had never been a time when life had looked as sweet as it did to these youngsters. They reminded her that there was a better world than the one she’d come from. What a delight it was to be with them. Her current partner, Frank, had sweaty palms and adoring eyes filled with wonder that a lady would show him how to dance. Lucas held June Li as though she were a butterfly cupped between his hands.
She worked with each boy, having them take turns at the piano. She urged them to practice again and again until the proper steps seemed—well, if not as easy as walking, then nearly so. Over the course of the lesson, the lads slowly transformed themselves from clumsy adolescents to confident young men who could adequately—if not artfully—navigate the dance floor.
“You see,” she said to them, “dancing is easy. Anything is easy if you believe yourself capable.” And bless them, they believed her, practicing their moves with increasing skill.
She couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment Blue walked into the room, but as she was showing Frank an advanced move, she turned, and there he was. She relinquished Frank’s hand and stepped away. Instantly she felt a warm rush of sentiment. Surely this was a first for her—to be overcome by the simple act of a man walking into a room.
Behind her, Lucas and June stopped and separated, turning their blushing faces away from each other. Andrew’s hands fell still on the piano keyboard.
Blue’s expression was difficult to read. He disclosed nothing of himself, no acknowledgment that last night had even happened. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she smiled invitingly. “How are your dancing skills, Doctor? Are you in need of lessons, too?”
“I don’t dance,” he said.
“Perhaps you should. It might improve your disposition.”
The faintest of snickers came from one of the boys.
“My disposition is fine,” Blue snapped, and the snickering stopped.
She could feel the young people watching them like spectators at a sporting match. They seemed half-fascinated, half-frightened by the tall, severe, scowling Dr. Calhoun.
“Then think how much finer it would be if you knew how to dance,” she said.
“I didn’t say I could not dance. I said I don’t.”
“Really? And what type of dancing do you not do? The galop? The polka? Heavens, say you know the mazurka. I’ve been trying to show them that one, but it’s difficult.” She brightened, waving June toward the piano. “We’ll need the Chopin piece you played us earlier—you did such a beautiful job, love.” The girl sat on the cushioned stool, but held her hands frozen above the keys. Isabel took Blue’s hand and placed his other one at her waist. “Here, help me demonstrate.”
He tried to extricate himself from her grip, but she held fast. She did not know how much longer she would stay, but while she was here, she was determined to explore the terrible, wonderful feelings he stirred in her.
He glared down at her white-knuckled hold on him. “You mustn’t overexert yourself, Miss Fish-Wooten.”
“I feel perfectly safe under your care.” She sent him a dazzling smile, then looked over her shoulder. “June, the mazurka, if you please.”
With far better skill than Andrew or Frank, June struck up a smooth rendition of the dance melody. Isabel took a step back, bringing Blue with her until he had no choice but to go along. True to her hunch, he knew exactly what he was doing. And despite his stated reluctance, he was an outstanding dancer, smooth and strong and sure of himself. Dancing with him was like gliding on ice.
For a rare few minutes, she was actually rendered speechless. It was a rare experience for Isabel. When he took her in his arms, even for the impersonal purpose of a dance demonstration, she felt a flash of reaction all the way down to her toes. Isabel got the feeling she had only to surrender to him, and he would sweep her away to a place unlike any other she had visited. For a few moments, the world consisted only of the music and this man. Nothing else. She nearly forgot the youngsters watching them. She nearly forgot that, last night notwithstanding, this man disliked her and resented having her under his roof.
In fact, he seemed to forget it, too. He held her as though she were precious to him and danced with her as though making love. The intimate press of his hand into the small of her back, the movement of his thighs against hers were entirely proper on the dance floor yet felt as wicked and delicious as a private caress.
Every detail of last night’s kiss came rushing back to her. Although he would not believe it about her, she had never kissed a man just for the pure, sensual joy of it. Until last night. Until then, she hadn’t even realized the power in a kiss. It seemed such a simple, somewhat superfluous gesture. Yet he had turned it into something else, something quite profound. She hungered again for the taste and firm softness of his mouth, even now in a room full of nosy adolescents.
She was spellbound, carried away, and she nearly wept when the mazurka ended. Blue took over the dancing lesson then, insisting on making certain the youngsters had paid attention. Like a drill sergeant, he marched the lads and even June Li through the steps. All of them—perhaps Lucas most particularly—seemed startled by his involvement.
Finally, he poured lemonade for everyone, serving June first.
She looked terrified and took a step back. “Oh, sir, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. You risked bodily injury by dancing with these clods. The least we can do is give you something to drink.”
Though he didn’t see it, Isabel noticed admiration and appreciation blooming on Lucas’s face.
Blue went to the doorway and stood to one side, demonstrating the proper way to allow a lady to precede a gentleman. Then, when they reached the dining room, he showed them the intricacies and subtleties of escorting a lady to dinner.
Isabel had been escorted to dinner by steamship captains, scoundrels and noblemen. But never had a man’s controlling hand at the small of her back felt so wickedly compelling to her. Never had she felt tingles racing over her skin. Never had she wanted to linger close to a man, to let his warmth surround her. And the
places he wasn’t touching her tingled even more insistently than the places he was.
Struggling to look composed and sophisticated, Isabel played her part while Blue held out her chair. She kept her eyes locked to his and a gracious smile in place as she seated herself, allowing him to slide the chair in. Then she thanked him with refined and earnest gratitude.
The lads watched, then took turns escorting June to the table. The poor girl’s face looked fiery with embarrassment, but pleasure danced in her eyes, too. But by far the most delightful aspect of the afternoon was the change in Lucas. Isabel could tell from the expression on his face that he was seeing an entirely new image of his father.
The happy camaraderie of the afternoon struck Isabel in a tender, unprotected spot. She caught herself daydreaming of family life, the safety and contentment it offered. It had to do with helping people, she thought, and remembered Delta’s suggestion about the Rescue League. She might not be able to protect people from a deadly virus, but she could certainly teach them to dance.
Twenty-Four
Blue and Hunter Calhoun stepped into the Parker Block building, which housed the facility of the Mission Rescue League. It was the first time Blue’s father had seen the new facility, and Blue was startled to feel a quick sting of nervousness. One never quite outgrew the need to please one’s parents, he reflected as he led his father through the reception area, greeting workers and clients along the way. Willie Bean, his orderly, handed him two papers to sign—a death certificate and a birth certificate. In the wee hours of the morning, yet another woman intoxicated with opium had given birth to a drowsy, undersized infant. The mother’s heart had stopped at approximately the same moment her son had taken his first breath.
He hurriedly scribbled his signature and handed the forms back to Willie. After the orderly departed, Blue told his father about the woman.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Hunter murmured.
Blue frowned. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. “A woman died in my care. How can you be proud?”
