by Lyn Cote
“You two, stop it,” Archie urged in an undertone. “Look!”
Linc obeyed, too. Across the long room, a beautiful brunette in a fawn-colored gown was receiving Mrs. Ward’s welcome. Hunt gave a barely discernible wolf whistle in approval.
“Is that Fleur Fourchette—that Southern belle who’s come to live with her aunt?” Bower inquired.
“Right,” Archie replied. “She’s from New Orleans, an old French family.”
Linc admired the brunette’s pretty face and petite form, but briefly. This brunette didn’t figure in his plan.
The three fashionable young blades moved away from Linc toward the receiving line. A small orchestra, arranged at one end of the ballroom, quietly played a piece by Haydn. Humming the tune in a near whisper, Linc watched the lovely Miss Fourchette smile prettily as Archie approached her and motioned toward the dance card, dangling from her small wrist.
Linc judged Archie, Hunt, and Bower to be sons of men who’d made their money in the gold mines or railroads, now connecting the east and west coasts. Restless young men, finished with education and trying to find a place in the scheme of things, overshadowed by successful fathers. Why then did Bower accuse Hunt of needing a wealthy wife? Why had Hunt trifled with Bower’s sister? Though none of this had anything to do with his reason for being here, Linc’s newspaper reporter instincts stirred.
“Miss Cecilia Jackson.” The words had not been spoken louder than any of the other names, but it was the name Linc had been waiting for. His eyes snapped back to the imposing entrance.
His redhead had arrived. He moved forward to observe her. Her careful boarding school training was plain in her bearing. She moved like a diva making her first stage entrance. When she and her aunt reached the end of the receiving line, Linc overheard her starched-up aunt’s final instructions. “Cecilia, remember your breeding. You are a cultured young woman, not a ninny-hammer like most of the girls here tonight.”
The debutante’s gaze skimmed the dazzling room.
Electric lights blazed from crystal chandeliers. Bunches of pink roses dangled from the branches of the chandeliers above, making the room redolent as any rose garden in summer. Tall, rainbow-colored silk draperies hung between the columns that supported the mezzanine and ringed the grand ballroom on three sides. The setting was the perfect one for her loveliness.
And Miss Jackson’s beauty hadn’t been exaggerated. Her hair was that highly prized warm auburn; her white skin creamy and unblemished except for a tiny enchanting mole at the corner of her mouth. How many young men this night would dream of kissing that beauty mark? And her eyes weren’t the expected blue or green of most redheads. Her eyes were a rich brown, the shade of brown sugar. Linc waited to see who would approach her first.
“Miss Jackson.” Archie bowed to her. “I’m Archie Pierce. We were introduced at your come-out. May I have a place on your dance card tonight?”
She hesitated, smiling prettily at him. “How could I say no to the first gentleman to ask? I’m so afraid of being left a wallflower tonight.” As she said the words, she managed to smile demurely. As Miss Jackson rewarded Archie with his name on her dance card, Linc realized that, though young and inexperienced, her entrance had a studied, practiced flavor.
As Miss Jackson moved away from Linc, other men stopped her, obviously soliciting dances. Not invited to the presentation parties, Linc had expected Miss Jackson to be just another beautiful deb. But his redhead in the flesh disconcerted him. He went over the facts he’d gleaned about her. She was nineteen. She’d lost her father a year ago. Her mother was ill, so her Boston aunt lived with her as chaperone. She was the richest unmarried heiress in San Francisco.
He’d expected Miss Jackson to be a sweet pink rosebud, which he would help to unfurl. Instead, she was a full red rose with thorns. The other debutantes fluttered around the gaily decorated room like colorful but insubstantial butterflies. They tittered behind fans and tried not to be seen glancing toward the young men, seeking their favor.
Cecilia Jackson, on the other hand, moved through the gathering like an aloof lioness on the prowl. Linc watched the young bloods react. They couldn’t take their eyes off her. Neither could Linc.
As the evening progressed, Linc watched a complex ballroom drama slowly build in intensity. If Hunt showed interest in one of the debutantes, so did Bower. Linc also noted after young ladies had danced with Bower, they’d often frowned at Hunt. Was Bower warning them away from Hunt? Sowing seeds of distrust? Had Bower decided to exact revenge on Hunt for slighting his sister the year before?
The rollicking polka ended. The jaunty schottische began. Miss Jackson was swept away by young Bower who appeared more pained than happy. Then Linc straightened up. Had Miss Jackson really made eye contact with him? At the meeting of their eyes, a shock like electricity had connected them for a split second. Then she glanced away.
“Hello, Wagstaff.” A journalist from the Examiner whose name Linc couldn’t remember grinned at him. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Likewise.” Linc shook the man’s hand.
“I’m the society editor tonight.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Linc continued to monitor the redhead. She was bestowing Bower with winsome smiles and flirtatious looks. He whispered something into her ear.
Linc made himself look away. “A promotion for you,” Linc quipped. “A nice easy beat to cover.”
The reporter smirked. “The society column is the most bloodthirsty one in the paper and you know it.”
Linc nodded, but eyed Miss Jackson with a sinking sensation. Over Bower’s shoulder, she now cast flirtatious glances toward Hunt. Though dancing with the pretty brunette, Hunt grinned back at Miss Jackson, winking.
“Are you enjoying the unfolding drama?” the reporter asked.
“You mean the daring Miss Jackson?”
“Thanks for my lead.” The man pulled out a stub of a pencil and jotted down a note in a small navy notebook.
The schottische ended. A number of gentlemen hastened to the lovely redhead to vie for the next dance, a quadrille. Hunt shouldered his way through. Bower didn’t give way, but stayed right beside the redhead. The two men squared off with her between them. Where was her aunt? She should intervene before—
“You haven’t been dancing, Lincoln,” his hostess Mrs. Ward appeared at Linc’s side.
Linc bowed but couldn’t take his eyes off Bower and Hunt. Hunt had taken the redhead’s hand. Bower crowded close to Hunt, speaking too low for Linc to hear. As the two men drew even closer, Miss Jackson pouted, but triumph glowed in her eyes.
Mrs. Ward stared at her now, as did others.
Across the room, the heedless redhead made a show of deliberating between Bower and Hunt for the quadrille.
Mrs. Ward took a step forward. “Does she have any idea what trouble she’s causing?”
Bower and Hunt were now nose to nose. Ignoring Miss Jackson.
Mrs. Ward drew in a quick breath. “They’ll be shouting before long. Oh, this is dreadful. A scene in my ballroom.” Frantically, the hostess motioned for the musicians to start the quadrille.
Hunt tugged at Miss Jackson’s hand. Bower took the other. Miss Jackson flushed pink, dismay flashing over her face. She tried to pull away. Was she just now realizing what she’d sparked?
In a split-second decision, Linc strode with poised assurance right into the eye of the storm, forcing Bower and Hunt to give ground and release her. Linc claimed Miss Jackson’s hand. “Our quadrille begins,” he said caressingly. “Let’s not be tardy in joining our set.”
Both Hunt and Bower objected. Linc didn’t even glance at them. Miss Jackson let Linc lead her into the set.
Chapter 2
A firm hand drew Cecy away from Hunt and Bower. She was dancing the quadrille with the stranger who’d rescued her. Sensing curious eyes, she blushed. What had gone wrong? Who was leading her through the quadrille?
She glanced at the stranger and drew a s
harp breath. Why, he was the man whom she had glimpsed during the schottische. She studied him. He wasn’t a youth like her other partners tonight. His hair was dark blond and his eyes clear blue. Over six feet tall, he wore his stylish evening dress well. But who was he? And why had he rescued her?
Then the stranger looked into her eyes—wrenchingly. She felt as though he opened her heart and read it in a glance. Instantly, she looked away. He’d had that startling effect on her twice this evening. Her pulse pounded at her temples.
Expertly, he drew her into a quick spin. So near to her, only a whisper separated them. He smelled like warmed autumn spices. He possessed an indefinable air of assurance she envied. Did he know how she trembled inside? His warm breath feathered wisps of her hair at the nape of her neck. She shivered. No other partner tonight had evoked a reaction such as this from her. Why did all her senses soar at this man’s touch? She felt as if she were losing herself to him.
The point in the dance came where the blond stranger released her to cross the square and dance with another partner. She stepped mincingly to the opposite corner of the set of eight. Summoning her courage, she smiled at the other man in their set who now faced her.
He nodded, no greeting in his eyes. The rebuff chilled Cecy like a splash of cold water. Hunt and Bower were responsible for this. How could they have forced a disagreement in the midst of a ball? She’d only done everything Auntie had told her. The fault was theirs.
The disapproving gentleman danced with her, then released her once more to the blond stranger who stepped to her side and led her in a sequence of steps. His powerful sway over her sensations, the general disapproval she felt—she wished the dance would end. Covertly, she glanced at the faces of the ladies in their set. Not one would make eye contact with her. Her spirit failed her. She made a misstep. Frantically, she looked to her partner. “I’m indisposed. Please lead me from the floor.”
The stranger swept her into a waltzlike embrace. Restraining her, he increased his pressure at the small of her back. “Courage,” he whispered.
His comment sparked her temper. She had strength. She gave him a furious glare.
He chuckled.
Oh, men were altogether contemptible. She averted her face. First, Bower and Hunt misbehaving and now this.
She tightened inside, marshaling her will to survive, to succeed. She smiled brilliantly at the dancers in her set. The other ladies still didn’t meet her eye easily, but who were they to judge her? She’d show them, all of them. She gave her partner as charming a smile as she could.
He looked back unimpressed, amused.
Chagrined again, she held her smile in place. She’d teach him to laugh at her. “Who are you?” she purred into his ear.
“A friend.”
Was he going to play hide-and-seek with her? She tamped down her irritation. Honey gathered more bees than vinegar. “Friends have names,” she returned.
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Ward,” he replied with maddening calm. “She knows my name.”
His insult rendered her speechless. She tugged at his hold on her. He murmured, “Miss Jackson, please don’t cause another scene within minutes of your first.”
The injustice of what he intimated made her seethe. “I didn’t cause the scene. And if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” she hissed.
“You don’t seem to know enough to realize what you need.”
She gasped, then lifted her chin. “I won’t forget your high-handedness.”
“No matter. I know you probably won’t accept my advice, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. You don’t have to conquer San Francisco all in one night. And don’t be so obvious about competing with the New Orleans belle. She won’t suffer from your actions, you will.”
She gave him a startled look. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me, and I always say exactly what I mean.” He spun her to the final four beats of the dance, then bowed. “Thank you for a lovely dance,” he said loud enough for those around them to hear. Then he whispered, “But don’t entertain San Francisco society with another scene tonight. Save something for the next ball.” He grinned and walked away.
She swallowed down her hot reply. Her next partner approached her cautiously. She gave him a dazzling smile, but inside she rioted.
Shrill laughter of children exploded all around Linc as he, Meg, and Susan’s grandson Del stepped off the horse trolley at the amusement park on Haight Street. For their Saturday afternoon treat, Meg wanted to see the wild animals.
“I see a lion!” Meg shouted, towing Linc forward by one chilled hand while Del held back on the other. “Hurry, Daddy!”
Linc felt like the linchpin of a seesaw. “Del, don’t you want to see the lions?”
“No, That stuff’s for kids. I’ll wait here.” Del pulled away and went to stand by a streetlamp.
For kids? Del was only ten, just three years older than Meg. But Linc couldn’t halt Meg’s enthusiastic plunge toward the amusement. “Don’t stray, Del!”
His impetuous, determined daughter dragged him into the thick of the crowd.
“Look! It’s a lion!” With gloved hands, Meg clung to the bars. A lioness paraded out of the lion house with the same expression as the audacious redhead. Last night, as he’d led Miss Jackson into the quadrille, she’d looked chastened, shocked at her own behavior. For those few moments, Linc had felt himself drawn to her. She’d seemed so innocent…but that hadn’t lasted even as long as their dance.
Linc glanced backward. Del stood stolidly against the lamppost. Since the death of Del’s parents, the boy and his grandmother, Susan, had lived with Linc’s family. When Linc had decided to move to San Francisco, Susan had insisted on moving with them. No stranger was going to raise Meg, her best friend’s only grandchild.
The move from Chicago hadn’t seemed to bother Del at first. Lately, however, whenever they left their home, Del became silent and moody. Linc wondered whether his own sorrow over losing Virginia been communicated to the boy? He still felt homesick for the life he’d shared with his beloved wife.
Now Linc put mourning behind him. His daughter was seven years old. She needed to have her childhood. He bought Meg peanuts to feed the chattering, cavorting monkeys. Finally, chilled by the winter dampness, they walked back to Del.
“You missed it all,” Meg said in disappointment.
Del looked at his feet. “I saw what I wanted from here.”
“Let’s go.” Linc drew them to the curb to wait for the next trolley home. “Susan will have hot cocoa waiting for us.”
The four of them sat around the square kitchen table in the quiet house. The new house still didn’t feel like home. But Linc leaned back in his chair, drawing as much solace as he could from the warmth of the oven, the fragrance of beef roasting slowly, the sweet chocolate on his tongue.
He studied Del. The lad’s glum face tore at Linc’s heart. He recalled the summer he’d been given his first dog, Butch. Maybe the children needed a pet in this lonely time.
Susan gave Linc an inquiring glance over Del’s head. Linc shrugged. Finally, Susan stood up. “Del, later you need to practice your piano. The tuner was here this afternoon. And I bought you that new sheet music you wanted.”
“‘Maple Leaf Rag’?” For an instant, excitement flickered on the boy’s features.
“Yes, but I expect to hear more Frederic Chopin than Scott Joplin. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Del became sober again.
“Now, Meg, you come with me. You have to spend time today on your embroidery.”
“But I don’t like embroidery.”
“That doesn’t matter. Your mother, may she rest in peace, started you on that sampler and I’m going to make sure you finish it.” As Susan stepped behind her grandson, she nodded at Linc, clearly telling him to talk to Del and find out what was wrong. Meg grumbled, but followed Susan out of the kitchen.
Linc stood up. “We’d better go out and see if we can f
igure out why my auto wouldn’t start last night.”
“All right,” Del agreed without enthusiasm.
In the old carriage house, now the garage, Linc switched on the dangling garage lights and gazed around for a moment. Electric lights in a garage and his own automobile. He’d never get used to the wonders of this new century and the change in his living standard after the large inheritance from his stepfather. His stepfather’s last request was for Linc to use his talents as a journalist to inspire others with wealth and influence. Linc’s writing with his stepfather’s money behind it could change lives for the better.
Del’s unhappy face brought Linc back to the present. Mulling over how to help the child beside him, Linc lifted the hood and propped it open. The engine. This was when he really felt inept. He understood the theory of the spontaneous combustion engine, but theory didn’t fix the car.
“Del, get that manual off the shelf and we’ll go through the checklist again.”
Del fetched the large black clothbound book. He began reading off the parts to be checked if the car wouldn’t start: magneto, carburetor…
Linc paused, looking toward Del whose face was masked by the manual he held. “I want you to tell me what’s bothering you.”
The book slowly lowered, but still Del wouldn’t look Linc in the eye.
“Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”
“It’s not something we can work out.” Del looked up rebelliously. “We can’t change our skin. I’m colored. You’re white.”
Linc wiped his greasy hands on a rag and recalled his own childhood and the names he’d sometimes been called. The closeness of his mother and Susan had made him a target, too. “Has someone been bothering you at school?”
“It isn’t just at school.” Del balanced the manual on the bumper. “Everywhere we go—when we’re together, you and me or me and Meg, people look at me.” Del wouldn’t meet Linc’s gaze. “Don’t you see them looking?”
Linc leaned against the car. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “but when I was your age in Chicago, people used to look at me the same way when I was with your grandmother.”
