Kissing Comfort

by Jo Goodman

Comfort stamped down hard on the irritation she felt because Bode offered the madam’s name. If her uncle could frequent the place, surely Bode had the same right. Certainly he had the same needs. “I suppose that’s the one,” she said. She knew it was. Margaret Drummond was a loyal customer of Jones Prescott, and had been since the days before the bank had a proper storefront. By investing at Tuck’s direction, Mrs. Drummond now enjoyed considerable wealth, and while the public might know the nature of her business, they did not know the state of her finances.

  Bode sipped his drink and considered what she’d told him. “It doesn’t seem likely that Mrs. Terry or Maggie Drummond would be blackmailing either one of them.”

  “I never thought they were. I only told you about them to point out that my uncles don’t do everything together. I thought it was the sort of thing you’d want to know.”

  “It is. Who’s to say where it will lead?”

  Comfort was tempted to raise her hand and tell him that she could say where it would lead: nowhere. “Bram’s infinitely more likely to be blackmailed because of a woman than either of my uncles.”

  Bode lowered his glass slowly. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he has so little regard for them that he frequents the dives and cribs in the Coast. A man with even faint affection for women doesn’t go there for his pleasure.”

  “You know that about him?”

  “I didn’t in the beginning. I was sixteen, Bode. Bram was overwhelming. I came to understand how he felt about women over time. Years. I can’t tell you when I fully realized it. One day, I just knew.”

  “But you fell in love with him.”

  “That did happen in the beginning. There’s no explaining it.”

  “No, I don’t suppose there is.” He looked down at his glass. There was a swallow of scotch left in it, just enough for him to see his dim reflection, but in the eye of his mind he was almost ten years younger, wearing Union blue and watching a woman younger still lift a thick tendril of jet hair from the nape of her neck and stab it with a comb.

  Glancing up, he found Comfort watching him. Her eyes were curious, her mouth tender. “No,” he said again. His throat thickened. He cleared it and finished his drink. “There never is.”

  Comfort turned on the bench and dropped her legs over the side. Her fingers curled around the edge of the velvet seat. “I’m not in love with him now, Bode. I thought you understood. I know I said I fell in love with Bram at the beginning, but that’s because what I felt was what I imagined love felt like. I had no comparison. How was I supposed to know? And later, when I came to know Bram better, how was I to understand that what I still believed I felt for him was merely a habit, like putting on my right shoe before my left or fiddling with my hair when I’m nervous?”

  She stood and pressed her hands together. “I believe what I said about Bram having little regard for women. What I didn’t tell you, because frankly, it’s rather lowering, is that he doesn’t think of me as one.”

  Bode stared at her. She could have been the inspiration for any of the ebony figureheads at the bow of a Black Crowne ship. He itched to loosen the plait of hair that rested against her spine and let it fall in dark waves around her shoulders. She didn’t shy away from his study, didn’t hint that it troubled her.

  Her bearing remained regal, fitting for a Queen. Her small chin was raised, her gaze direct. His eyes followed the long, slender line of her body, the concave curve of her waist, the provocative outward curving of her breasts and hips. The apple green walking dress was the only anomaly. She should have been naked.

  “If what you say is true,” he said at last, “my brother is an idiot.”

  Comfort’s smile was a bit uneven. “Thank you . . . I think.”

  Bode set down his glass and approached her. “It’s hard to believe he couldn’t see what is so evidently true.”

  “As I said, it’s rather lowering, but there you have it.”

  Bode slipped his palms under her elbows. “He says he’s in love with you.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s lying.” She held his gaze. “He’s lying to you or trying to convince himself. He’s never said as much to me.”

  “Never?”

  “No. Not even when I was telling him we had to end the farce. I thought he might say it to convince me otherwise, but he never did. I suspect he knew I wouldn’t believe him.”

  “He tried very hard to convince me,” said Bode. “Maybe he did, a little. I said some things to him that I probably should have kept to myself.”

  Comfort didn’t ask him what they were. “Don’t all brothers do that?”

  “Probably. Cain and Abel come to mind.”

  “Bode.”

  He smiled crookedly. “All right. That was perhaps too dramatic of an example.” Because the line of Comfort’s mouth was still set in a scold, Bode felt obliged to kiss it. His hands went to the small of her back and pulled her up so she was pressed to his chest. Her fingertips fluttered against the sleeves of his jacket before they settled on his arms. She fit him as neatly as a glove.

  Their mouths met and clung. The kiss that he’d meant to be a period on their conversation became sweetly languorous. Neither of them felt any urgency to end it quickly or alter the tempo to make it something other than what it was.

  They drew back simultaneously but only so far as their mouths were concerned. Their bodies remained flush. Her dark eyes were searching; his were grave.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t tell her yet. He couldn’t anticipate her reaction, and he needed to have more certainty than he did now. She wasn’t a plan that he could revise and redesign. He had one chance to make it right. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a turn with me on deck.”

  Comfort didn’t believe he had been wondering that at all, but she didn’t challenge him. “I’d like that,” she said and slipped her arm in his.

  Alexandra removed her hat and handed it to Hitchens. “See that Madsen gets it. I’ll be with Bram.”

  “Of course.” He held out his arm and she draped her mantle over it. “I’ll make sure she gets both.”

  Alexandra was already moving across the entry hall to the stairs and gave the butler only an absent nod. It wasn’t until she reached the newel post that she paused and turned to look back at him. “Hitchens?”

  “Yes, Mrs. DeLong?”

  “Have you seen Travers today?”

  “I haven’t, ma’am. I thought you might have sent him out on an errand.”

  “Me? Why would I do that?”

  Every crease in the butler’s brow deepened. “I couldn’t say why, but I spoke to Master Bram just an hour ago and asked him if he knew where Travers was. He said he didn’t. He indicated that you would know.”

  “Did he? Thank you, Hitchens. Have tea sent up.” She turned away and began mounting the stairs.

  Bram had copies of the San Francisco Call and the Chronicle strewn about his bed. Some pages lay crumpled on the floor, evidence that they could not hold his interest or were no longer of any use to him. Alexandra curled her lip disapprovingly as she eyed the state of his room.

  She shut the door firmly with the express intent of making him look up from behind the paper he was holding. When he didn’t, she crossed to the bed and rattled the pages between her fingertips.

  Bram set the paper on his lap, but he only glanced at her before looking down again. “Yes, Mother?”

  She cupped his chin and jerked it up. “Show me,” she said. “I want to see your eyes.”

  The effects of laudanum softened the features he meant to set defiantly. “Happy?”

  Alexandra snatched her hand away, but she did not back up. Bram’s pupils were dilated so wide she could barely make out the pale blue irises. His expression was as vague and unfocused as his tongue was sharp. She glanced at the nightstand. Except for the oil lamp and a book he’d never opened, it was empt
y. “Where is it?”

  “You’re referring to . . . ?”

  His insolence set her teeth on edge. “The laudanum, Abraham. Where is it?”

  “Abraham? You are out of sorts, aren’t you?”

  “It’s fair to warn you that I’ve already had a trying day. I would consider it a favor for you not to try my patience further.”

  “Well, since I’d be doing you a favor . . .” He shrugged. “Please, Mother, won’t you sit down?”

  “Tell me where the laudanum is, Bram. Have you finished the last of it? Is that why Travers isn’t here?”

  He sighed and pressed his fingers to either side of his head at his temples. Why was the laudanum effective against every pain but the one she caused between his ears? “There’s none of the laudanum left that Dr. Harrison gave me. I used the last of it an hour ago.” He had three small brown bottles tucked between his splints and the cloth bindings, but they weren’t from the doctor. This morning, when Travers still didn’t return, he sent the man Hitchens directed as his valet’s replacement into Chinatown to make the purchase. To his way of thinking, Travers’s continued absence was going to work in his favor. The new man—and he couldn’t remember his name—had already proved he was more accommodating than Bode’s spy had ever been.

  “I’m finished with it, Mother,” he said. “Unless you’d return the favor I’ve done for you and purchase some for me yourself.”

  Alexandra arched an eyebrow at him and let that suffice as her answer. She kicked aside some of the papers littering the carpet and made an elegant sweep of her gown before she sat. “Where is Travers?”

  “I don’t know. Did you ask Hitchens?”

  “I did. He seemed to think I would know. Apparently you gave him that impression.”

  “I can’t account for what he thinks he heard.” He disregarded her quelling look. “I don’t know where Travers is, Mother. I haven’t see him since he tucked me in.”

  She regarded him narrowly for a long moment before she sighed. “Have you read the story?” she asked, waving at the papers all around him.

  “What story is that?”

  “The one about the attack on a carriage by the Rangers. It happened yesterday afternoon.”

  “I read that. It was more of an incidental account, not the usual denunciation against the Rangers they typically print. Why do you ask?”

  “None of the papers reported the names of the victims, but it was all anyone could speak of at Clara Rapp’s luncheon. I was there to assist with the church charity work, remember?”

  He didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

  “The carriage belonged to Tucker Jones and Newton Prescott. Miss Kennedy, the same Miss Kennedy who is your fiancée, was with them.”

  Bram grabbed at the papers, looking for the story. He needed to demonstrate that much interest to his mother even though he could have recited the articles in the Call and the Chronicle almost verbatim. He found one of the pages partially tucked under the leg that wasn’t injured. He smoothed it over his lap as best he could and pretended to read it. “How do your lady friends know who it was if no names are mentioned?”

  “There were witnesses. It must have been horrible. The paper doesn’t say so, but Clara says she heard that Miss Kennedy was taken by the Rangers.”

  “What?” Bram sat up straighter. He forced himself to focus. Alexandra would expect that. “What do you mean she was taken?”

  “Just that. Abducted. By the Rangers, Bram. The Rangers. The same men, no doubt, that attacked your brother.”

  “What makes you say that? Bode said he was felled by barrels and crates at the warehouse.”

  “You know that was a story for the benefit of our guests. And me. He will never convince me it wasn’t the Rangers.”

  Bram didn’t care about that. “What about Comfort? Has she been found?”

  “I can’t say. I was told that none of them were at the bank today. That could mean anything. They might all be safe at home, resting. I don’t think I would have the fortitude to leave this house so quickly if something like that happened to me. Your brother didn’t have the same sense to stay away after he was assaulted.”

  Bram wanted to ask a question that had nothing to do with Bode, but tea arrived and it was several minutes before he was able to prompt his mother to continue.

  “Everyone at the luncheon expected me to be upset, and I was, but not as much as I might have been if Miss Kennedy had not recently been so inconveniently obstinate.”

  Bram blinked. It was a harsh view, even for Alexandra. “No matter how inconvenient she’s been of late, she didn’t deserve what happened.”

  “Of course she didn’t. Did I make it seem as though I thought so? I don’t believe that at all.” She added another lump of sugar to her tea and sipped. “I told you it’s been a trying day. I sent my card around to their home, inquiring after their health, but there’s been no reply. Really, I don’t know if I can trust what I heard this afternoon. There were so many versions. Different details about everything. I want to believe that it’s all been exaggerated.”

  “What did they say about Newton and Tucker?”

  “Someone said they were knocked to the ground and one of them—Newton, I believe I was told—was run over by the carriage.”

  Bram sagged back against the headboard.

  “It’s awful,” Alexandra said. “Terrible.”

  He thought she sounded sincere, but sometimes it was difficult to tell. “Have you spoken to Bode? He’s bound to know more than the women at your luncheon.”

  “I certainly made the attempt. He is as trying in his own way as you are. I believe he’s avoiding me. I had the driver take me to the office for the express purpose of speaking to him. I could not escape the feeling that Mr. Farwell was putting me off.”

  “Putting you off?” He lifted his eyebrows, astonished.

  “That was my reaction. Officious little man. Bode should show him the door.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I allow your brother to make those decisions. That is our arrangement, and if I overstep, he will leave.”

  Bram saw Alexandra’s fingertips whiten where they held the teacup. He knew she disliked the deal Bode struck with her, but the flash of fear he saw in her eyes surprised him. He’d never considered that she might be afraid. “Bode was probably with the harbormaster or touring one of the ships.”

  “If that were the case, Farwell could have sent one of the other clerks after him, or gone himself. I don’t think he was on the wharf.”

  “Well, what did John say?”

  “He said Bode left clear instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed. By anyone. He added the last to make certain I wouldn’t mistake the intent. As if I were just anyone.” Her hand had a small tremor in it that made the teacup rattle in its saucer.

  Bram stretched his arm as far as he was able and very gently steadied the saucer. “Perhaps you should hold some righteous anger in reserve. John doesn’t act on his own. Those were Bode’s orders.”

  Alexandra waved Bram back and set her tea down. “I have no shortage of anger.”

  “Did you go to his apartment?”

  “I can’t manage those outrageous steps in a gown. They’re quite intentional on his part, and he doesn’t mind that I know it. I stood at the bottom and called to him, but if he was there, he refused to answer.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “You’re not suggesting that I go back?”

  “No. I believe he’ll come here when Farwell tells him you stopped by. If he were in his apartments, Mother, he would have come down to see you. You can’t seriously believe otherwise. He must have been out, probably with investors. He’s always been guarded in business.”

  Bram saw that she was calmed, at least for now. It was interesting to him that she would leave his room in a less agitated state than she’d entered, while he would lie there as inert as a sponge, soaking up every one of her anxieties and making each his own.<
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  Bode and Comfort ate dinner with Mr. Douglas in his cabin. Comfort was aware that the Demeter Queen’s cook wanted to impress her, and she was flattered and grateful for his effort. The halibut was baked to perfect flakiness in a tomato sauce with onion, cloves, and sugar. It was served with small white potatoes and green beans with almond slivers. Mr. Douglas opened a bottle of white wine to drink with their meal. Afterward, there was angel cake and strawberries.

  “May I meet Mr. Henry?” she asked when she’d finished forking the last crumb of angel cake into her mouth. “He wasn’t on deck this afternoon. I was in awe of his biscuits then. Now I am seriously thinking of asking him if he’d take a position in a landlubber’s kitchen.”

  Mr. Douglas chuckled. “If I weren’t certain that he’d turn you down, I’d lock him in the galley, but give me a moment, and I’ll arrange that introduction.” He excused himself from the table and stepped into the passageway.

  Bode took advantage of his absence to reach across the table and take Comfort’s hand. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “You should know now that there won’t be anything like this on the Artemis Queen.”

  “There won’t? But she’s your flagship.”

  “She’s also nearing the end of a journey already delayed. Her stores will be low, and Mr. Gilroy, her chief cook, will have used most everything in his galley by the time we board her. There won’t be tomatoes, potatoes, or green beans. We’ll have what’s been smoked and pickled and fermented. And you shouldn’t judge Mr. Gilroy’s culinary skills by what appears on your table once we’re there.”

  “I don’t suppose we could take some provisions from this ship?” she asked, teasing more than hopeful.

  “We could, but we won’t.”

  It was the answer she expected to hear. During their turn on deck, she’d witnessed his attention to every detail of the ship and how the crew worked her. She imagined that he had the paddle steamer laid out in his mind, and as they walked, he was making a small change here, a larger one there. She saw the Demeter Queen through his eyes and began to understand what drove him to seize on her strength and make something stronger, to capture her speed, and to build something that would outrun the wind. She didn’t mind that her presence at his side was incidental; she appreciated his concentration to a single undertaking. There would come a time when they were alone again, and she would be the undertaking that focused all of his concentration. The thought of it made her shiver then and now.