Chapter 7
Things were not turning out at all as Henry had planned. He cast a glance to his right. No, indeed, not at all.
First, someone had shanghaied the mousy Miss Morgan and replaced her with the spectacular creature swathed in green silk and seated beside him. Second, rather than the smell of newsprint and ink as he’d half-expected, she wore the most lovely fragrance of flowers, spice, and something else, a scent he couldn’t put his finger on and yet knew he would always remember. And third, his normally charismatic ability to charm his constituents into lengthy conversation apparently did not apply to Helen Morgan.
Indeed, somewhere in his great scheme to protect the frail and innocent newspaperwoman, things had gone seriously awry. He had to do something fast before he became the one in need of protection.
“I’m pleased you could join me tonight, Miss Morgan.”
“Thank you,” he thought she mumbled.
He shifted positions to better see her. A lacy fretwork of light and shadows teased her face, bringing softness to the angle of her chin and the tilt of her nose. Aristocratic fingers were clenched in her lap, knuckles white, and she stared straight ahead as if looking toward a destiny for which she felt no particular joy.
Silence, a politician’s worst enemy, fell between them. A reminder that this was not a real date failed to soothe his bruised self-esteem. Real or not, he had to set the situation to rights. He decided to try another tack.
“I generally take my meals with a law book.” He inserted an off-the-cuff chuckle to lighten the mood. “Not nearly as pleasant a companion as you, I daresay.”
Inwardly, Henry groaned. You sound like an idiot, Hill. He forced his smile up a notch and waited for a reaction from his guest.
At first nothing. She merely clenched and unclenched her fists until he thought she might slug him. Then, slowly, she met his gaze with eyes as green as her dress.
“I’m p–p–pleased to know I’ll not be asked to meet high standards, Mr. Hill.”
He waited for her smile to match his, for some indication she’d made the statement in jest. It never appeared. Gradually he gave up the pretense of sociability and settled back into the seat.
James began to hum an off-key rendition of “Camptown Races” as the first drops of rain hit the roof of the coach. Soon the downpour began in earnest.
Henry continued to steal covert glances at his companion, who now seemed to be oblivious to his presence. This was shaping up to be the longest night of his life.
And it had barely begun.
He keeps staring. That was all Helen could think as she rode along in uncomfortable silence. The stillness was barely broken by small talk and inconsequential discussions of law books and the stormy weather, which bore down around them. It followed them into the restaurant, a lovely eatery on the far end of Montgomery Street famed for its seven-course meals and decadent dessert menu.
Like as not, the food would be wasted on her tonight.
Once inside and settled at a table, Helen studied her nails and contemplated the length of the torture this evening looked to become. Meanwhile, her companion greeted a seemingly endless stream of well-wishers, pausing only to whisper instructions to a waiter. Occasionally he would introduce her as his friend, once as his companion, but more often that not, she simply remained “Miss Morgan” to those who ventured forth.
As no comment seemed necessary, Helen remained quiet and listened to the men talk politics. An unhappy reminder of the first two decades of her life. Smiling girl decorates table for politician. A headline worthy of her life if not worthy of the newspaper.
Helen sighed. Why hadn’t she returned the book to its place in her reticule, or better yet, stayed home to read in the privacy of her room? Just wait until she returned home. She would make sure that neither Penney nor the others ever coerced her into an evening out with a man again.
Her foray into the world of dating was done. At least she had the opera to look forward to.
“I noticed you read Jane Austen,” the politician said in a rare moment without an audience. Her shock must have registered on her face, for he continued. “I’m sorry. Am I wrong? I just assumed as much since I saw Sense and Sensibility on your desk.”
“Oh?”
He nodded and lifted his glass, then took a sip. “Personally I prefer Northanger Abbey.”
Finally, a topic worthy of discussion. Perhaps this evening might be saved yet.
Helen leaned forward and shook her head, warming to the topic. “I beg to differ, Mr. Hill. Why, the complexity of the plot alone makes it far superior to—”
“Henry Hill, you old scalawag, is that you?”
And so it went, the moment so fleeting had absconded with her companion. Some gray-bearded gentleman had Mr. Hill’s attention and would likely hold it for a while from the looks of things. Helen leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. It seemed as though her duty tonight would be to remain awake and keep her smile propped up. Other than this, her companion seemed to have no need of her.
The waiter approached and signaled to Mr. Hill, who answered with a nod. “Forgive me, Nigel,” Mr. Hill said to the elderly man, “but I’m afraid the lady and I are late for an appointment.”
An appointment? We haven’t had dinner yet.
Helen tamed her surprise and rose along with her companion while her heart sank. She’d made such a poor impression on the man that he’d decided to rid himself of her company before the food even arrived. In her youth she’d had a few social outings with gentlemen callers, some of which were less than memorable, but none had ended before dinner. Just wait until she saw Penney.
“Shall we?” The politician grasped her elbow and guided her through a maze of tables to … what was this? The kitchen?
Chaos greeted her, along with a wall of stifling heat. To her left, a dozen men in suits dashed about in a complicated ballet while another dozen raced about, providing a symphony of sounds with their pots and pans. When taken together, the chaos fell into order, and the food went out to the guests, or so it seemed.
“Miss Morgan?” Helen turned to follow the sound of her name, only to find the waiter standing there. Mr. Hill was nowhere in sight. Her heart sank, even though this was the ending she’d expected. Evidently the job of finding her a way home had fallen to the waiter. “Please follow me.”
She obliged, but rather than heading out the back door, Helen found herself climbing a rather rickety set of back stairs that emerged onto a large room that seemed to be some sort of storage area. Beyond the barrels and crates, she found Mr. Hill awaiting her at a table set beside a window that afforded a view of Montgomery Street and the ocean beyond.
Or it would have had the rain not been beating a rhythm against the cracked panes of glass.
Mr. Hill pushed back a rather plain wooden kitchen chair and helped her settle into her seat before taking his place beside her. The waiter snapped his fingers, and a parade of dark-suited men, some of whom she recognized from the kitchen, paraded in, carrying trays bulging with food.
“Forgive me, Miss Morgan,” Mr. Hill said as the last of the trays was placed on a pair of crates that served as a sideboard, “but this was the only way I could have an uninterrupted conversation with you.”
“I see.” Discomfort of another sort snaked up her spine, and the room seemed to shrink.
The politician seemed to sense her lack of enthusiasm. “Mr. Kent and his staff will be with us at all times, so I assure you there will be no impropriety.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “If you feel the least bit uncomfortable, I assure you other arrangements can be made, or I can take you home.”
Warm candlelight mixed with the glow of a large whale oil lamp and bounced across the scarred wooden floorboards and danced up the walls to meet in the center of the ceiling. In lieu of a fancy tablecloth, someone had appropriated a bright red-and-white quilt. There was nothing about this room that felt uncomfortable, and strangely, neither
did she.
“No,” she said softly. “This will be fine.”
“Excellent.” He motioned for the staff to begin serving the first course. “Now I believe we were discussing the fact that Northanger Abbey far exceeds Sense and Sensibility in all aspects of the story.”
Helen squared her shoulders and gave him a sideways look. “We were discussing nothing of the sort,” she said with mock sternness.
Somehow the courses came and went. Helen ate little and talked almost as much as she listened. The politician, as it happened, was quite well read.
By the time dessert was served, Helen had learned that Shakespeare and James Fenimore Cooper were his favorite authors, that he was currently reading A Tale of Two Cities, and that he had large passages of Last of the Mohicans and the Bible memorized.
To her amazement, Henry Hill was actually quite a fascinating fellow. He also had an appetite. He’d partaken of all seven courses, then ordered dessert—the house specialty: apple dumpling. Each course was delivered by the dour-looking waiter, who retired between courses to the corner of the room, where he had a stack of newspapers at the ready.
While they rested between courses, Mr. Hill paused in his discourse regarding his mayoral aspirations to stare into Helen’s face. “You indicated once that you were familiar with the workings of a political campaign.”
She froze, stricken. “D–d–did I?”
“Well, not in so many words,” he said slowly. “But there was a suggestion that perhaps you’d had some experience in that arena.”
Helen’s mouth went dry, and she reached for her glass of water. The politician must have sensed her unease, for he placed his hand over hers. It was warm, this masculine hand, while hers felt like ice. She stared at the swirling Hs atop the gold signet ring and slowly let out a pent-up breath.
What do I say, Lord? she found herself asking.
The truth, came the soft response.
So she told him. Speaking in fits and starts, she told the politician the whole story. About her father and her mother and the dear women who took care of her. She found that once she began to tell it, the story refused to stop until she told it all. Finally she reached the part where she attended her father’s funeral and then headed West to the place her mother had once read her a story about. The first train out of Texas had brought her to San Francisco. God, however, had brought her to church and to the three friends she’d made there, friends with whom she now worked at the Gazette.
When she finished, she realized she’d said far too much. Covering her embarrassed frown with her napkin, she pretended to dab at the corners of her mouth. Mr. Hill removed the napkin from her hand and brought her fingers to his lips for a brief moment.
“I have a story, too, Miss Morgan, and I’ve never told a soul,” he said softly, each breath blowing warm against her fingertips. “I believe I would like to share it with you.” He met her gaze. “Would that be terribly improper?”
Her heart rose to her throat, and she found the words she wanted to say lodged there as well. “I would be honored to hear your story,” she finally managed.
An eternity later, images of a young boy living in abject poverty, a youth saved by a loving aunt, and a grateful young man making a promise to the Lord filled her mind. “Thank you for sharing this,” she said through a shimmering of tears. “Now I see why you feel so strongly about helping the less fortunate.”
He nodded and leaned toward her. “I’ve never felt comfortable sharing that story with anyone. Even my best friend, Asa, hasn’t heard all of it.” He entwined his fingers with hers once more, and this time he held them to his chest. She could practically feel the beating of his heart as she seemed pulled toward him. “To think this all started because …”
“Because of what?”
“Never mind.”
Her lips were inches from his when she realized she was about to kiss him.
Or rather, he was about to kiss her.
“Dessert is served!” the waiter called.
Helen jumped and nearly fell out of her chair. She cast a covert glance at Mr. Hill, who seemed just as shaken. He allowed the waiter to serve each of them, then handed her the dessert fork. “Prepare to be amazed,” he said with a grin.
I already am. She tore herself away from his gaze to stab at the decadent dessert.
One taste of the melt-in-your-mouth pastry and spicy sweet apple inside, and she groaned. “Oh, this is better than reading a book,” she said, then blushed when she realized she’d spoken the words aloud.
Mr. Hill laughed. “I daresay that is the best compliment I’ve heard in a long time. What say you, Mr. Kent?”
The waiter smiled and nodded, then went back to his newspaper.
Their desserts quickly disposed of, the pair returned to a much safer and less personal topic, their debate of the merits of Shakespeare’s comedies over his tragedies. While Helen favored the tragedies, the politician tended to prefer the comedies, which led to a lively discussion.
Helen never noticed the passing of time until she suppressed a yawn. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said with a start as Mr. Hill checked his pocket watch, then quickly rose.
She settled beside him in the coach, keeping a respectable distance. By the time the coach made its way through the drizzling rain and arrived at her doorstep, it was nearly midnight. Tomorrow she would have a difficult time making numbers add up and totals come out correctly.
No matter, she decided as she bade the politician good-bye at the door with a polite handshake and practically floated inside. What was a little exhaustion when the evening had been so perfect? As the door closed behind her, she could hear Mr. Hill’s driver whistling a rather unique rendition of “Hail, Columbia.”
It came as no surprise that Penney sat just inside the door, pretending to read her Bible. She might have gotten away with it had the book not been upside down. When Helen walked past without a word, Penney gave up all pretenses and followed her into the bedroom.
“So?”
She slipped out of her green dress and returned it to the back of the armoire, suppressing a smile. “So what?”
Penney huffed, feigning annoyance as she slipped under the covers and gave the pillow a vicious plumping. “Look, I didn’t wait up half the night just to hear nothing. How did it go?”
Helen slipped into her nightdress and sank onto her bed, threading her fingers behind her head. She let a long moment pass, then sighed. “It was wonderful,” she said as she extinguished the lamp.
Telling Penney was like reliving the evening, and as she spoke, she tried to remember each detail. She’d nearly fallen asleep when she realized that they’d forgotten all about their tickets to the opera.
Chapter 8
Tuesday, July 10, 1860
The next morning Helen arrived at the Gazette with a troubled heart. What seemed impossibly romantic last night seemed more like a dream today, and in her experience, dreams never survived the light of day. Whatever insanity possessed Mr. Hill last night would most certainly be gone today.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, she tackled the day’s work with a lackluster attitude. By noontime, her strength was gone, and so was her ability to add, subtract, and generally make sense of receipts and invoices. Somewhere between breakfast and midmorning tea, she’d put a name to the malady that held her in its grasp: love.
It certainly never seemed as though the characters in Jane Austen’s novels were as miserable as she; still, she recognized all the signs. Dropping her pencil, she leaned forward on her elbows and rested her chin in her hands. She’d seen the strange symptoms in Jennie and Amy, but she never expected to catch the infirmity herself.
“Love,” she whispered. “Ridiculous.”
“What’s so ridiculous?”
Helen looked up to see Jennie standing beside her desk. “He’s a politician, and I’m just a woman who adds numbers. I hate crowds, and he craves them. He makes these beautiful speeches, and I, well, sometimes I
can’t even get a word to come out properly.” She lowered her head and studied the pile of receipts, already blurring from unshed tears. “It’s just not what I expected.”
“Do you think love is what I expected when I met Nick, or what Amy expected to find with Evan?” Jennie smiled. “Love is usually the last thing anyone who falls into it imagines will happen. That’s what makes it so special.”
Helen shrugged. “But I’ve only spent one evening with him, and we’re so different. It makes no sense.”
Her friend knelt beside the desk and took Helen’s hand in hers. “Helen, how long do you figure it takes God to decide who we’re to spend our lives with?”
“An instant, I suppose. I’ve never actually thought about it.”
Jennie patted her hand then rose. “And maybe not thinking about it is the way the Lord wants it.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Genesis, He says He will make a helper for man. Do you think God asked Eve if anything made sense when He put her in the Garden of Eden, pointed her toward Adam, and told her to go be a helper?”
Helen smiled. She couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. “No, I don’t suppose He did.”
“Then who are we to doubt when He points us to the man He’s created for us?” She paused. “Even if it doesn’t make sense to us sometimes, it makes perfect sense to Him.”
It made absolutely no sense.
Henry carried the thought around inside his head, but it failed to drown out his need to see Helen Morgan again. He told himself he was just protecting her until the men who’d threatened her life were caught, but deep down he knew better.
One evening with the green-eyed woman had seared his heart forever.
He was in love.
It made no sense.
“What’s all the groaning about?” Asa sauntered in and leaned against the door frame.
Henry cleared his throat and reached for his pen. “Nothing,” he said. “Just more work than I wanted to tackle today.”
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 12
