Kissing Comfort

by Jo Goodman

  Flushed, as much from the pleasure of her performance as the exertion of it, she turned on Bode. The flush became the color of embarrassment when he began to applaud.

  “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “The worst thing I’ve done is shown you how very little encouragement it takes for me to behave so foolishly.”

  He stopped clapping but kept his palms pressed together and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Your engagement to my brother aside, I don’t believe you’ve ever done anything foolish in your life.”

  “You don’t know me very well.”

  He turned thoughtful. “Why is that?”

  Comfort shrugged. “That is the sort of question you have to answer for yourself.”

  “Fair enough.” He nodded to the wing chair. “Will you sit? There are tea and sandwiches.” When he sensed her hesitation, he added, “Please. I would like it. Really.”

  “All right. For a little while.” She returned the ladder-backed chair to its place and removed her bonnet from the seat of the wing chair. She laid it beside her jacket and gloves on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Do you take sugar? Cream?”

  “Neither.”

  “You probably prefer it with a touch of whiskey the way Uncle Newt does.”

  “More like a touch of tea with my whiskey.”

  She poured the steeped tea from the pot into a delicately fluted china cup. “That’s more like Uncle Tuck.” She extended the cup to Bode and made sure he had it securely in his palm before she released it. Taking both cream and sugar for herself, Comfort tested the taste before she sat. “Would you like a sandwich? Mrs. Deltry makes excellent ones.”

  “No, thank you. But help yourself.” He waited while she selected a petite watercress sandwich. “Do you know all my mother’s staff?”

  “Not all, I’m sure. But many of them.”

  “How does that happen? I’m not sure Alexandra knows them.”

  “I know the ones that have accounts at our bank.”

  Bode’s short laugh made the cup rattle in its saucer. He steadied it. “So it’s business, then.”

  “Good business.”

  “Perhaps. Black Crowne’s never done business with Jones Prescott.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you expect that will change once you and Bram are married?”

  “I don’t see why it would, and you should know that Bram and I don’t discuss money.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, but you might consider having that conversation before you exchange vows. It could be . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Illuminating.”

  “There’s no point. I doubt Bram could shed any light on Crowne Shipping and the DeLong finances if he held a candelabra over the book of accounts. Everyone knows you and your mother make all the decisions, and as you’ve chosen to work with Croft Federal just as your father did, I don’t see Bram’s marriage influencing the relationship you have with Mr. Bancroft.”

  Bode’s left eyebrow lifted. “A candelabra?” He appreciated the picture she brought to mind. “If only you exaggerated,” he said, his mouth twisting wryly. What Bram knew about figures mostly related to the female form. That education was compliments of dance halls and brothels, and perhaps from observing their own father in pursuit of what was under every woman’s skirt. He hadn’t learned it in the classrooms at Harvard.

  “What did you study at Oberlin?” Bode asked suddenly.

  Comfort couldn’t follow the change in subject, but she supposed that didn’t matter. “Mathematics.”

  “Really.”

  “Really,” she said, repeating his intonation precisely. “Statistical calculation and analysis. Probability. The evaluation of risk. Applications for business, economics, and engineering. My degree says liberal arts, but all of my concentrations were in math.”

  “Remarkable.”

  Comfort felt another warning was in order. “It’s just that sort of condescension that contributed to you lying on that chaise.”

  Bode arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing. He sipped his tea.

  Comfort took another dainty sandwich, cucumber this time. “Your eye looks worse than it did last night.”

  “I know.”

  “Did someone give you ice for it?”

  “Ice. Beefsteak.” He pointed to the plate of sandwiches. “Cucumber slices.”

  Comfort regarded her sandwich uneasily.

  “A different cucumber entirely, I’m sure.”

  Hungrier than she was skeptical, she plopped what was left of the bite in her mouth. “What about your back? You couldn’t rise when I came in.”

  “It will be fine. I’m going to work tomorrow.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? It doesn’t appear that you were able to sleep in your own bed.”

  “That’s not my bed. At least it hasn’t been for years. My bed has some support, like this chaise.”

  “Then it’s true what they say about you?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You sleep on a bed of nails.”

  “I eat them, too. And spit rust.”

  She laughed and realized quite suddenly that she was enjoying herself. Perhaps it was that he only had one steely eye. The intensity of the blue-violet glint had been reduced by half, and he hadn’t so much as turned it on her once.

  “What do you do at your offices?” she asked.

  “As little as possible,” he said. “I prefer being away from them. My interest is the ships. Talking to the masters. Inspecting. Looking over the cargo.”

  She was certain he had employees for those things, so if he did them, it was because he really wanted to be out of doors.

  “There are meetings, I suspect.”

  “Mm. Too many. Deals. Contracts. Agreements to be settled with a handshake.” He felt his jaw tighten. “Or with the turn of a card.”

  “That really happens?”

  “Sometimes.” He wanted to shrug, but his shoulders were suddenly too tight to make it appear careless. He sought a neutral tone instead and was glad to find it. “It’s San Francisco.”

  She nodded, understanding. She’d seen lots of valuables traded or sold in the gambling tents and mining camps, and she’d been witness to what never should have been bought or sold in the cribs and whorehouses.

  “Bram told me you used to be master on the Artemis Queen,” she said. “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes.” Almost always, he could have said. Admitting it would have been indulgent. “What do you know about the Artemis?”

  “What everyone knows, I suppose. She’s your flagship. The most beautiful ship in the fleet. At least I think she’s the most beautiful. I don’t know if that’s what makes her a flagship.”

  Bode wondered if she’d accept an invitation to go aboard. He didn’t extend the offer, though it would have been interesting to see her reaction. The Artemis Queen was weeks out from completing her China run. There was still plenty of time to consider it. “What do you do at your offices?” he asked. “Besides learn the name of every person who has an account at Jones Prescott.”

  “I review the city papers from the previous day so I can follow up on the important stories. News out of the legislature and governor’s office, for instance. Railroad expansion. Who is getting federal land grants. All of the things that influence interest rates and investments.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, I read and approve loan applications. Uncle Tuck and I decide how we’ll deliver payrolls to the mines. What routes, which stage drivers we’ll use, or if we’ll send the money by train. We always have to consider robbery. Uncle Tuck has a special sense for it. Not robbery,” she said quickly. “But for avoiding it.”

  “I had no idea,” he said. “About any of that.”

  “Uncle Newt and I discuss investments. That has always been his strength. He can look over fluctuations in the market and know exactly what funds he wants to transfer. With the telegraph the market is no longer just local. We can make tran
sfers with our agents in Chicago, St. Louis, and New York.”

  “Is he ever wrong?”

  “Of course. More often than he’s right. But it’s not like he’s pushing all his markers to the center of the table and betting against the house. The distribution of money over a variety of investments of varying risks helps soften the blow of a single failure. Even a catastrophic one.” Comfort realized she was rattling on about a subject that would have had Bram plotting his escape. It wasn’t fair that she’d taken advantage of her captive audience. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was probably every bit as painful as the stitch in your back.”

  “Hardly.”

  She wondered if he was sincere. There was no inflection in his voice and no expression on his face to guide her.

  “You’re the only woman I know who works.” He knew immediately that he’d said something wrong. Comfort Kennedy had her hackles up. Before he could determine what made her bristle, she was letting him know all about it.

  “That’s not true. In this house alone there is Mrs. Deltry, Mrs. Patrick, Mrs. Eversly, and no less than seven girls employed as housemaids and kitchen help. And dare I mention your mother? She’d have something to say, I’m sure.”

  Bode was equally sure that was true. He cleared his throat and made an attempt at looking contrite. Apologies did not come as swiftly to his lips as they did to his brother’s. “Allow me to amend that. I was trying to say that you’re the only woman I know who works outside of her home—or anyone else’s for that matter.”

  She conceded the point, and she didn’t want to make another using dance hall greeters, actresses, pretty waiter girls, and whores as further examples. Comfort inclined her head, acknowledging his correction. “Men seem to have a difficult time recognizing the contributions of women.”

  “I never thought of myself as one of those men,” Bode said. “Until now. Consider me corrected.” He finished his tea and held out the cup and saucer for Comfort to take. The awkward stretch put his back into spasm again. He swore softly as the saucer slid from his nerveless fingers and the teacup followed.

  Comfort caught the saucer in her free hand and the cup on the toe of her shoe. Pretending she didn’t see Bode’s look of astonishment, she carefully set her own cup and saucer on the tray and then added his saucer. She bent forward and removed his teacup from the tip of her kid boot.

  “What do you do when you’re asked for an encore?”

  She made a dismissive gesture that was at odds with the amusement playing about her mouth. “I had to make the attempt,” she said. “That is your great-grandmother’s china.”

  “I know. I didn’t realize you did.”

  Comfort shrugged lightly. “Your mother’s shared stories on occasion. She remembers the tea service from when she was a little girl.”

  “She really does like you, doesn’t she?”

  “I hope so. You seem surprised.”

  Not surprised precisely. Alexandra had said much the same thing to him. What he was, he thought, was suspicious. He remained quiet on that count. It was simpler to accept Comfort’s statement than to explain his differences with it.

  Comfort couldn’t surmise the direction of his thoughts, but she recognized that he was in considerable pain. Because she couldn’t be sure how much her actions on the dance floor had exacerbated his injury, she felt compelled to offer him some relief even if he didn’t entirely deserve it.

  “Lie on the floor,” she directed without explanation.

  Bode stared at her.

  Comfort repeated herself, but this time with a deliberate pause between each word.

  “I heard you,” he said. “I even understood. What I don’t know is why you want me to do it.”

  “You’ll have to trust that I mean to help.” Her eyebrows lifted a notch. She said, “Well?”

  Bode recognized the challenge in her expression. What he honestly didn’t know was whether or not he was up to it. Until Comfort arrived, Travers had attended him throughout the day, bearing some of his weight as he hobbled to the bathing room to see to his morning ablutions and personal needs. Travers suggested that he remain in the borrowed nightclothes, robe, and slippers while he recuperated, but he insisted on dressing because he’d woken up with a plan already fully formed that would bring Comfort around.

  Setting his jaw to keep from grimacing, Bode pushed himself as upright as he could manage and swung his legs over the side of the chaise. He caught Comfort staring at his feet.

  “You really should remove your shoes,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

  “I’d rather keep them on.”

  “All right.” She tucked her smile on the inside of her mouth. How many times, she wondered, had Bram told her that his brother could be fastidious? Is this what he’d meant? Whether it was a demonstration of manners or modesty, or simply that he didn’t want to reveal a hole in one of his socks, Comfort found it an unexpectedly appealing aspect of his character. Then again, perhaps it was only that he meant to be difficult.

  Bode got on the floor by sliding off the chaise and going straight to his knees. He began to lean back, but Comfort put out an arm to stop him.

  “You’ll have to take off your jacket,” she told him. “That’s not negotiable. And lie on your stomach. I’ll find a towel for your head.”

  Bode watched as she stood and disappeared into the adjoining bath. She never looked back, obviously expecting that he wouldn’t make any sort of protest. He didn’t. In a careful series of shrugs, he managed to push his black frock coat over his shoulders so that it was hanging loosely at his elbows by the time Comfort returned. Without asking his permission, she freed his trapped arms and put the jacket on the chaise.

  “Your vest,” she said. “Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “Spoken like a banker.”

  She didn’t believe he meant it as a compliment, so she didn’t thank him, and since his fingers had begun to fiddle with the buttons on his gray silk vest, she didn’t goad him to do the job more quickly. Judging where his head would be when he stretched out on the carpet, Comfort folded the towel and then placed it on the floor.

  “Walk forward using your hands for support,” she told him, taking his vest away.

  Bode couldn’t come up with a single good reason to do what she said. “I don’t think I—” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her skirts flutter. She was actually beating a tattoo against the floor with the toe of her boot. He glanced up. Sure enough, her impatience was also visible in the flat line of her mouth and in the tight fold of her arms across her chest. “Is it generally known that you have tendencies toward the tyrannical?”

  Comfort unfolded her arms and let them fall to her sides, but her mouth did not soften appreciably. “I am only discovering it myself.”

  Bode didn’t miss the hint of accusation in her tone. Apparently he was responsible for revealing this unpleasant facet of her nature. It almost made the ridiculousness of his position palatable. He began easing forward exactly as instructed.

  Comfort perched on one arm of the wing chair and began unlacing her boots while Bode made his painful way to the floor. He would never return to his offices tomorrow, she thought, not without intervention. No matter that he wanted to believe it could be accomplished by sheer force of will, she knew better. She removed her boots.

  “Turn your head so you can rest your face on your cheek,” she said. “But move your arms to your sides.”

  He did as he was told, because, really, what choice did he have at this juncture?

  Comfort regarded the stiff line of his long frame and shook her head. It wouldn’t do. “Try to relax.” This had no appreciable impact. She sighed. “Begin by closing your eyes.” Since she could only see his swollen one, she had to trust that he was doing as she asked. “Imagine a stream of clear, cool water flowing under your skin. Imagine the sound of it as it slips over muscle and sinew. You can only hear the sound of the water and the sound of my voice, and they becom
e one, a single quiet current that lifts tension and carries it away.”

  Her voice became incrementally softer as she went on, and also more insistent. “You feel the water at the back of your neck, cool rivulets running over your skin. The water is pooling across your back. Your shoulders are pleasantly heavy under the weight of the water. You feel some of it trickle down your spine. There is no part of you that is untouched by it. The water is everywhere. It lies against your back, your legs, the soles of your feet. You feel it slipping along your arms, across your palms, and between your fingertips. You cannot stir it. It stirs you.”

  Comfort lifted the hem of her dress as she moved to Bode’s side. “The water is a satisfying weight. You don’t fight it. You don’t want to.” She stepped onto his back. “You accept it.” Her toes curled into the muscles on either side of his spine. She moved slowly, carefully, her skirts brushing Bode’s arms as she walked the length of his backbone. Her steps were small, her carriage balanced, and she moved with the grace and confidence of a tightrope performer. Her voice remained quiet and steady, and exactly as she’d told him it would be, at one with the current.

  Her toes worked especially hard at the base of his spine where his muscles were so tight it was like standing on a board. Or in Bode’s case, at the edge of a gangplank. She bent her knees slightly, pressing more deeply, looking for the spring in the board. She thought of the water, her form, and the power of her dive, and then she pushed off.

  Even before she heard his soft grunt and the subsequent blissful moan, Comfort knew she’d found and released the pinched source of his pain.

  Landing lightly on the balls of her feet, she pulled her skirt clear of him and turned away so she could sit in the wing chair. She picked up one of her boots, loosened the laces a bit more, and started to slip her foot inside. It was not surprising that Bode hadn’t yet said a word. When she did the same thing for Tuck, he often napped right where he lay.

  She didn’t glance at Bode until she’d finished lacing both boots. He hadn’t opened the one eye he could, but she could tell from the faint twitching of his fingers that he hadn’t fallen asleep.