“Of course not, but you cannot hold it against the man for performing his duty.”
Mary stared at him a moment, then turned with a swish of her long skirts and resumed walking. “My head tells me you are right, James. But my heart refuses to be sensible about the matter.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Homeless children do not belong in a jail. They belong in an orphanage—like Aunt Laina’s. Alas, there is no orphanage in St. Louis. Nonetheless, the matter is well settled—despite the captain’s lack of compassion.”
They reached the corner and veered right. A steamboat’s whistle blasted a strident note, then another. Mary glanced at James and laughed. “I believe I am becoming accustomed to the constant blare of those whistles. That time I only flinched instead of nearly jumping out of my skin.”
He grinned down at her. “I am sure in a few more days we will not notice them at all. Or the Indians and mountain men. Though it is still something of a shock when one walks into the office and books passage on our ships. Particularly since they often pay their fare with pelts.”
“Truly? I cannot imagine.” Mary stopped and looked up at him. “How do you know what a pelt is worth?”
A frown creased his forehead. “I have no notion as to their value. I am learning to judge that. Meanwhile, I let Goodwin handle all such transactions while I watch. It is quite an art, bartering. The Indians are quite skilled at it.”
Mary started walking again. “Have you found any information that points to whomever was skimming the profit from the line?”
“Not yet. Everything is too new—such as this trade in pelts. But I shall. I am watching Goodwin. There is something about the man I do not trust. It would not be hard for him to take advantage of my ignorance, so I am secretly keeping a careful accounting of all transactions, apart from the company records he keeps.”
“And if you discover he is stealing from the line?”
“I shall have Captain Benton arrest him.”
Mary snorted. “You mean if the good captain is not too busy arresting children.” She turned her head and looked forward. The sun rode low in the sky, the bottom of the blazing orange orb hidden by the leafy canopy of a tree atop the rise they were climbing. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of light and looked across the street at an imposing two-story brick building with a clock tower, topped by a pillared dome, in the center of the roof. A large park surrounded the building. Mary gave James a sidelong look. “Shall we cross over and see what that building is?”
He nodded and took hold of her elbow. They waited for a buggy to pass, then hurried across the street and walked up the wide brick pathway to climb the steps. The cooler air in the shade of the portico felt wonderful. Mary removed her hat, fanned herself with its wide brim and watched James stride over to a brass plaque on the wall beside the handsome double doors straight ahead.
“This is the courthouse, Mary. Rather small, I should think, for all—”
One of the doors opened and an elegantly dressed young woman stepped out onto the portico, almost running into James.
“Oh!” Light brown, delicately arched brows lifted and big, blue eyes opened wide as beautifully shaped lips parted in surprise. “Forgive me, sir. I was not paying attention to my path.”
James smiled and made a polite bow. “Not at all, miss. The fault was mine. I should not have crowded the doorway.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Long lashes fluttered down over the blue eyes as the woman smiled, revealing dimples in cheeks tinged with a hint of pink.
Mary’s chest tightened. The woman was petite, blond and beautiful. The same as Victoria. Everything she was not. She stopped fanning, raised her hat to her head and settled it a little forward to hide as much of her face as possible. The wide, gauzy ties she formed into a large bow to hide her small, square chin. There was nothing she could do about her height. Or her slenderness.
She glanced down, surreptitiously bunched the fabric of her long skirt at her narrow waist to make her frame look fuller, then looked back toward the woman and froze. So did the tall, blond man holding the door. Their gazes met. The heat of a blush spread across her cheeks, but Samuel Benton did not so much as flicker an eye. He only gave a polite nod, though she knew he did not miss the tiniest imperfection in her appearance, or her pathetic attempt to hide them.
Mary stood rooted in place, acutely aware of the sheen on her flushed face in comparison to the cool perfection of the beautiful, petite blonde. She felt like an ugly giant, but not for anything would she betray her discomfort to the woman giving her a keen, measuring look from under those ridiculously long lashes. Or to the captain, either. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and pasted a polite smile on her face.
Samuel Benton stepped forward. “Good evening, Miss Randolph…Mr. Randolph. May I present Miss Stewart.” He looked down at the young woman. “Miss Stewart, Miss Randolph and her brother are two of St. Louis’s newest citizens. Mr. Randolph has come to town to manage the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line.”
James gave a polite bow. “Your servant, Miss Stewart.”
Mary smiled and dipped her head, wishing she were seated. She was at least three inches taller than the woman. “Good evening.”
Miss Stewart smiled in response, showing her dimples off to good advantage. “I shall have to tell my father of your arrival in our fair city, Mr. Randolph. I am certain he will want to meet with you. He is the mayor of St. Louis and very solicitous of its businesses.” Her gaze shifted, chilled. “And my mother will want to make your acquaintance, Miss Randolph. She heads many of the charity and cultural events of St. Louis.” She turned to Samuel Benton and gave him a dazzling smile. “You were going to see me home, Captain Benton?”
“Of course, Miss Stewart.” He glanced in their direction. “Good evening, Miss Randolph…Mr. Randolph.” He offered Miss Stewart his arm, then escorted her down the stairs and out to Market Street.
Mary stared after them a moment, then reached up and yanked undone the huge bow hiding her chin, cross with herself for allowing Miss Stewart’s beauty to upset her.
“Shall we go on with our exploring, Mary?”
She took a breath and retied the bow…smaller. “Yes, of course, James.” She forced a smile and tried not to think of how her heart had faltered when the captain’s gaze had met hers, or of how lovely Miss Stewart had looked beside the captain, as James took her elbow and they descended the steps together.
It was no use. Thoughts kept tumbling around in her head breaking her concentration. Mary sighed, put down her pen and lowered the wick in the oil lamp until the flame sputtered and died. She would finish the letter to her parents tomorrow.
The wood chair creaked softly as she rose from the writing desk. A slight breeze rippled the fabric of her dressing gown as she walked to the open window. At least it had finally cooled off a little. That would make sleeping more pleasant. If only she could sleep.
Faint sounds of St. Louis’s revelry drifting in the window were drowned out by the loud, persistent hum of a hungry mosquito hovering around her ear. She swatted the insect away and looked out into the moonlit night. Had Captain Benton spent the evening sitting on the mayor’s front porch wooing Miss Stewart? Was he there still?
Mary frowned, leaned against the window frame and let the night breeze flow over her. Why was she unable to erase the couple from her mind? She was not normally so weak-willed. It must be the strong resemblance Miss Stewart bore to Victoria Dearborn that had her so…so…agitated. That, and the look of admiration in Captain Benton’s eyes as he gazed down at the petite blonde. It was the same way Winston Blackstone had looked at Victoria.
Mary sighed, then shoved away from the window and walked to the four-poster bed. She longed to walk about, but the room was too small to pace. She sat on the edge of the bed, tugged a pillow from under the woven coverlet and reclined against it. The mosquito found her. Another joined it. She swatted them away, rose to her knees, yanked the gauzy bed hangings fre
e of the bedposts and pulled them into place, making certain the edges lapped. That would keep the annoying insects away. If only there were a curtain she could pull across her mind to keep the unwelcome thoughts and images away.
She snorted and batted her eyelashes, dipped her head and looked up, ever so coyly, through them, as Miss Stewart had done while talking to the men. It was nauseating! Miss Stewart was an outrageous flirt, who was obviously dissatisfied lest she capture the admiration of every man she came in contact with. Why, Miss Stewart was flirting with James right under the captain’s eyes! Why were men blind to such machinations?
Mary fluffed her pillow and sank down against it. How would it feel to have a man look at you the way Winston looked at Victoria? The way Captain Benton looked at Miss Stewart? As if you were beautiful and delicate and precious? How would it feel to have a man love you?
The stars shining beyond the filmy fabric blurred. Mary swiped the tears from her cheeks, grabbed another pillow and flopped over onto her side, hugging the fluffy softness close against her constricted chest. This loneliness was her portion in life. God had not seen fit to make her beautiful in the eyes of men. There was no sense in wishing for things that would never be.
Chapter Seven
Sam relaxed in the saddle, at ease with the powerful ripple and thrust of his horse’s muscles, the solid thud of hooves against the hard-packed earth. It was a nice day for a ride, and it had been a long time since he had been astride Attila. He did not get out of St. Louis often.
He ducked under a low-hanging branch, rested his free hand on his thigh and glanced up at the cloud-dotted, blue expanse above. Too bad he could not have enjoyed this excursion more. But the trip’s purpose was not to his liking. Still, posting notice of the new law concerning emigrant children under the age of twelve was part of his job, and he had done it. Now, he would have to enforce it.
His face tightened. So did his stomach. He blew out a breath easing the constraint and returned his attention to the trail ahead. The thick band of trees that hid the wagon train gathering site from the city was thinning. He would soon be back to town. He frowned and eased back on the reins, slowing Attila’s pace.
At least it was late in the season. The wagon train forming now would probably be the last for this year. The influx of emigrants should stop soon. And perhaps by the time they began gathering again next spring, the situation concerning orphaned children would be different. Meanwhile, he would do what he must.
Sam set his jaw, clamped a firm lid on his unease and directed his thoughts toward his goals. He had worked with a view to them since he was old enough to muck out stalls and help farmers plant and harvest crops. He was not going to give them up now. He would do his job. And he would fulfill his plan.
He closed his eyes and summoned the vision he carried in his heart. His house would be perfect. There would be no soot, no faded fabric, no chipped paint in the wood trim or gouges in the wood floors. He would have carpets in every room, fancy furniture and real paintings on the walls. And it was going to be big. Three stories high with lots of windows and tall white pillars holding up the high porch roof.
He frowned and opened his eyes. He was close. Very close. The lead mine upriver he had invested in was proving very profitable. And his other interests were doing equally well. His finances were secure. What he needed now was the land.
He knew the piece he wanted. It had a knoll, the highest spot around, where he would build his house to look out over the river. It would be the first place seen by people coming down the river to St. Louis. A real showplace. All he had to do was wait for Charlie and Harry Banks to come back to town so he could make the old mountain men a generous offer for their property. Maybe then they would stop mining for silver and live an easier life in town. And then, when his house was built, he would marry Levinia Stewart and they would become the young leaders of St. Louis society.
Sam smiled, leaned forward and patted Attila’s neck. He had it all worked out. All he had to do was court Levinia and wait for Charlie and Harry. He closed his eyes again, pictured the way it would be. But for some reason he could not see Levinia in the house. He frowned and stopped trying to place her there. It was too early. That was the problem. He had only begun to court her. But he intended to marry her. The mayor’s daughter was everything he needed his wife to be. She was the most beautiful woman in St. Louis, a fitting mistress for his showplace house. And she was the key to his full acceptance into society.
Sam shifted his weight in the saddle and let his mind drift back to the way Levinia had looked last night. She had been agleam with beauty, clearly outshining Miss Randolph.
Miss Randolph.
Sam stirred, jolted by the same sense of guilt that had hit him when he had met her gaze last evening. It was clear, from the look in her brown eyes, that she still felt he was wrong about arresting that young boy. But that was his job!
Sam jerked his thoughts away from the condemnation in Miss Randolph’s eyes. He knew the desperate acts hunger drove one to, but he could not afford to feel guilty for performing his duty. His job was providing him with the means to accomplish his goals, and he would not give that up for anyone. Certainly not for a woman with a pair of accusing brown eyes. No matter how beautiful those eyes were.
Danny had brown eyes.
Sam sucked in air, fought the pressure in his chest. The approaching victory suddenly felt hollow. Danny and Ma would never know he was holding fast to the promise he made them to be so rich and important nobody would ever sneer at any of them again. At seven years old, he had thought that promise could take the place of the food and warmth God never sent in spite of his prayers. He had thought the promise was strong enough to keep them alive—the way it did him. But Danny was too small, and his ma too weak. Their sickness got worse until it killed them. He had tried to take care of them, but he could not save them.
Sam’s face tightened. He glanced toward the sky. I failed you and Danny then, Ma, but I will not fail you now. I will keep my promise to make you proud of me.
He emerged from the trees and reined south, headed for Chestnut Street and the stables behind the jail.
The jail.
The tight ball of unease returned to his stomach. What sort of place was a jail for a kid?
“I am certain it would work out well for your store, Mrs. Simpson.” Mary gave the grocer’s wife a warm, encouraging smile. “Marketing baskets can become very heavy before one reaches home, and I believe many of your customers would be willing to pay a small stipend for Ben to relieve them of that burden. I believe they would welcome such a service, and favor your store with their custom for offering it.” She placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder, drawing the stout woman’s attention to the boy who was all shiny clean and dressed in clothes that had once belonged to Ivy’s sons.
Mrs. Simpson glanced at her husband, who was stacking burlap bags in the corner, and shook her head. “You will have to gain Mr. Simpson’s approval, Miss Randolph. And I am quite certain he will refuse you.” There was commiseration in her eyes.
Mary thought it likely the woman was right, but she would not give up without a fight. Ben had been so happy when she had explained this idea to him. “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.” She lifted her chin, turned toward the corner to speak with Mr. Simpson and almost bumped into a small, elderly woman. “Oh! Forgive me, madam, I—”
“The fault is mine, dear.” The woman placed a blotchy, thin-skinned hand on her arm. “I overheard a bit of your conversation and moved closer where I could shamelessly eavesdrop on the rest.” The woman smiled, and the creases and wrinkles in her face deepened. “My hearing is not what it used to be. But I heard enough to know you have an excellent suggestion, young lady. If you will permit me to help, I believe the three of us—” another smile included Mrs. Simpson “—can convince Mr. Simpson it would prosper his store. Do you agree, Martha?”
Mrs. Simpson nodded.
Mary stared, stunned by the elderly woman’s o
ffer, and doubtful of its value. Still…Mr. Simpson held no fondness for her. And Mrs. Simpson had agreed. She smiled at the tiny woman. “I should be most appreciative of your help, madam.”
“Good!” The woman returned her smile. “Now, ladies, let us see to Mr. Simpson.”
Mary grinned. She could not help it. The woman’s faded blue eyes were fairly twinkling. She was obviously delighted at the prospect of a challenge. But how could she help?
The woman sobered. She slid her basket off her arm and set it and a small piece of paper on the long wood counter. “Here is my list, Martha. But, as I shall not have to carry my basket myself, add a quart of molasses, a bag of tea and a good portion of honeycomb. Oh. And two of those lemons—fresh ones, mind you. I must say, this is a most helpful idea. But tell me, what is the cost for this young man to carry my basket home for me?”
Cost? Mary took a closer look at the elderly woman beside her. How clever to persuade Mr. Simpson through his pocketbook. She should have considered that. But she had thought only in terms of a stipend for Ben. Mary held back a chuckle. The aged woman’s face held an expression of pure innocence, yet she had raised her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the store, and was watching the result out of the corner of her eyes. Another good idea.
Mary wiped the smile from her face, lowered her lashes and shot a glance toward the corner. Mr. Simpson had straightened. He looked their way and a frown darkened his face. He brushed his hands together, sending some sort of dust flying into the air, and started toward them. Mary jerked her gaze back to the other women before he caught her watching him.
“You mistook my conversation with Miss Randolph, Mrs. Lucas.” Mrs. Simpson lifted the hinged lid of a large wooden box and began to scoop tea into a small cloth bag. “Miss Randolph suggested that Mr. Simpson hire this young boy to carry baskets for our customers, but my husband has not agreed.” She shook the bag down, dropped the scoop and tied the neck of the bag closed with a length of cord, then paused with the bag poised over Mrs. Lucas’s filled basket. Her left eye closed in a quick wink. “Do you still wish these other items?”
The Law and Miss Mary Page 6
