Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  “Miss Jackson?” a timid voice whispered hours later.

  Cecy opened her eyes. The room was dark.

  “Miss Jackson?”

  It was her maid. “Go away,” Cecy muttered. Her mouth was dry and tasted bad.

  “Cecilia.”

  At the sound of a man’s voice, she shrank back. “Go away!”

  Firm, heavy footsteps shuddered from the floor through her as he crossed the room. Mr. Wagstaff bent, gathered her up into his arms.

  “No,” she whimpered.

  He spoke to the maid: “Please pack her a bag for an overnight stay.”

  Cecy gasped. “What do you mean an overnight stay?”

  He ignored her feeble struggling and carried her out the door. “I’m taking you home with me.”

  Chapter 7

  Cecy was barely conscious of Mr. Wagstaff wrapping a coat around her and carrying her outside into cool air. She couldn’t focus on the dim sights and vague sounds around her. She could hardly hold her head up.

  “Just lean on my shoulder.” Linc drove her away.

  The rasping motor and its shuddering woke her a little. Unable to question him, she slumped against him. After days of loneliness, she nestled against his shoulder—so warm, solid, comforting. After a time, the car stopped and he lifted her again. “Where are we?” she whispered.

  “Home.”

  Then a door opened. Bright light and warmth enveloped her. This made her weep again.

  “Susan, here she is.”

  A woman with a strong voice answered him, “I’ll put her to bed after some warm milk.”

  Cecy glanced around. A silver-haired black woman followed them up a staircase. “I shouldn’t…”

  “Susan will stay with you all night for propriety’s sake and tomorrow we’ll get a more suitable chaperone,” Mr. Wagstaff said.

  Too deep in despair to argue, Cecy let Linc lay her down on a featherbed. What did propriety mean to her now? She was ruined. He began unbuttoning her shoes. He shouldn’t, but she couldn’t bring words to her lips.

  “I’ll do that,” the woman objected. “You go get that warm milk from Kang. I’ll have her in a nightgown when you get back.”

  “I don’t like milk,” Cecy muttered.

  “Nobody asked you that,” the old black woman said kindly, but firmly. “You’ll drink your milk or else.”

  Cecy gave in with a sigh, feeling wobbly lying on the soft bed.

  “When was the last time you ate a meal?” The old woman nudged her as she unbuttoned the many buttons at Cecy’s back.

  “Can’t remember.”

  Feeling her corset be loosened and then pulled away forced a deep sigh from Cecy. Her eyes drifted shut.

  “Don’t go to sleep on me. I’m too old to lift deadweight. You roll over when I tell you to.”

  Cecy thought she nodded.

  Cecy followed directions and soon she was dressed in a very loose, soft flannel gown.

  A tap on the door. “Come in,” Susan ordered.

  Cecy opened her eyes. Linc walked in with a steaming cup on a small silver tray. “Here’s your milk.”

  “Meg and Del are waiting for you to say prayers with them,” the older woman said. “You go on. I’ll get Miss Jackson all tucked in.”

  “Good night, Cecilia.” Linc touched her cheek. “Everything will look brighter in the morning.” He walked out closing the door behind him.

  Cecy whispered in her mind, “He called me Cecilia.” Tears came again, but they were warm tears of gratitude.

  The old woman propped Cecilia up against several pillows. “You’ll feel better when you drink your milk.”

  Her head seemingly stuffed with cotton wool, Cecy accepted the cup and sipped the warm, sweet milk.

  The old woman sat in a chair beside the bed and hummed an old spiritual Cecy recognized, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The melody quieted Cecy. Then tears of shame slid from her eyes down to the soft flannel gown.

  “Don’t go letting sadness take over. Linc won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re not alone.”

  Cecy didn’t have the strength to argue. Her tears flowed, unchecked—inexhaustible.

  “Okay. You’re all buttoned up.” The black woman said from behind Cecy. “Breakfast is waiting on us downstairs.”

  I can’t face anyone. “I’m not hungry.” Cecy frowned.

  A little girl with brown braids popped into the room. “I smell bacon, don’t you?” Without ceasing to chatter, the little girl took Cecy’s hand and led her out the door. “I think we’re having pancakes today, too.”

  “Who are you?” Cecy looked down into the cheerful, freckled face.

  “I’m Meg Wagstaff. My papa is Linc Wagstaff. He’s your friend. He brought you here because you’re sad because your aunt had to go away. You’re Miss Cecilia Jackson. I read about you in the articles Papa wrote—”

  “You’re Mr. Wagstaff’s daughter?” Cecy hadn’t ever given a thought to this man’s personal life.

  The child stopped, looking up in surprise. “I just told you that.”

  As Meg led her down the steps, Cecy felt a little unsteady and gripped the railing. Cecy smelled bacon, melted butter. Her stomach growled.

  Meg giggled. “See—you sound hungry.”

  “Don’t talk like that to your elders.” The older black woman had followed them downstairs.

  “Sorry, Aunt Susan,” Meg recited.

  Cecy’s memory brought up the singsong response that she and the other boarding school girls had recited: “Yes, Miss. No, Miss.” But this happy child made her reply sound pert and teasing, not beaten down and hopeless as she and the others had been. Cecy smiled at Meg. “I do sound hungry.”

  The little girl wrinkled her freckled nose, grinning.

  Aunt Susan slid open the pocket door and ushered both Meg and Cecy into a small dining room. Meg let go of Cecy’s hand and ran to her father. She threw her arms around him. “Papa, I brought her down. See?”

  Standing at the head of the table, Linc hugged his daughter. A small black boy at the table stood also.

  “Good morning, Cecilia,” Linc said. “Del, will you please help Miss Jackson take her seat?”

  Cecy waited, silenced by seeing Mr. Wagstaff in these new surroundings. Wearing a serious expression, the boy came around the table and pulled out the chair to Mr. Wagstaff’s right. Linc made the introductions. “Cecilia, Del is Aunt Susan’s grandson. Del, this is Miss Jackson.”

  Nodding, Cecy sat down and shyly smiled her thanks at Del. The boy nodded soberly, then returned to his place across from her. Meg took the seat beside her while Linc seated Aunt Susan at the foot of the table.

  Cecy looked at the faces around the table. She’d assumed that Aunt Susan was Mr. Wagstaff’s housekeeper. But housekeepers weren’t seated at the table by their employers. What were the relationships of the mixed group around the table?

  The door from the kitchen opened and a Chinese houseman walked in carrying a huge platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, golden pancakes, and fragrant maple syrup.

  Cecy’s appetite leaped to life.

  The houseman set the tray on the sideboard. “Good morning. I see the lady has come down. Lady, you drink tea or coffee for breakfast?” He pinned her with a bright, questioning look.

  The mention of coffee brought back the memory of trying to drink a cup the morning before and the dreadful vision of blood. “Tea,” she murmured.

  Meg tugged Cecy’s sleeve. “Are you going to be here when Del and me—”

  “Del and I,” Aunt Susan corrected as she stirred cream into her cup of coffee.

  Meg grinned. “Are you going to be here when Del and I get home from school, Miss Jackson?”

  Cecy couldn’t reply. Where would she go now? She was ruined. Auntie had left her.

  Mr. Wagstaff cut her frantic thoughts short. “Miss Jackson will stay with us a day or two while she makes plans for the future.”

  “Good.” The little girl stared up into Cecy’s eyes
. “I want to show you my dollies and the new dollhouse I got for Christmas—”

  “Meg,” Aunt Susan reminded, “you better get busy eating breakfast, so you don’t get to school late.”

  Mr. Wagstaff asked a blessing for the day. “And, Lord, we thank You for Your word, sorrow endureth for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

  As he prayed, Cecy tried to make sense out of the unexpected family she found herself in. But she couldn’t.

  The houseman put a pot of tea on the table near her. Cecy waited to see if he would sit down with the family, too.

  “Anyone need anything else?” the houseman asked.

  “No, thank you, Kang. Another excellent breakfast,” Aunt Susan replied. The Chinese man smiled, bowed, and went back through the door for the kitchen.

  “Do you like pancakes?” Meg asked Cecy again as she offered Cecy the blue-and-white china serving plate.

  “Yes.” Cecy took the plate of pancakes from the child. Her hunger made her feel lightheaded and slightly nauseated. She forced herself to fill her plate. She had to eat to have a clear head to think.

  Cecy watched as Meg looked back and waved, then skipped around the corner toward school with Del at her side. Meg took all the gladness of the spring morning away with her. Cecy folded her arms around herself, chilled.

  Linc pulled out his pocket watch. “Please fetch your driving coat, gloves, and hat. We’re leaving right away.”

  Cold fear bathed her. “Where?”

  He touched her arm. “Later I’ll take you to meet Mrs. Hansen, now I’m taking you to my office.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have work to do.” He gave her a long look. “Now, be a good girl. Go up and get your things.”

  She wanted to argue, but how could she? Her only plans had been hiding in her room and crying. Upstairs, as she reluctantly donned her auto duster, hat, and gloves, she realized she’d be unrecognizable under this automobiling garb.

  Heartened, she joined Linc in the drive beside his Pierce Arrow. Within minutes, they chugged up, then down the hills of San Francisco toward busy Market Street. There Mr. Wagstaff helped her out of his vehicle and into an imposing office building. A few men glanced at her, but without interest. Relieved, Cecy preceded Mr. Wagstaff into the elevator and let him usher her into a nearly empty office.

  “Where’s the rest of your furniture?” she asked, looking around.

  “We’ll discuss that later.” He pulled a spindly chair close to his desk, which occupied the middle of an otherwise bare, large walnut-wainscoted room. Then he sat down in the only other chair and faced her. “Now let’s discuss where you go from here.” He took her hand. “You’ve been cast as the culprit in a very nasty scandal. Yesterday your aunt left town—”

  Her pulse sped up. “How did you know that?”

  “A friend called me. I’m trying to come up with a way out of this scandal.”

  A sob tried to work its way up and out, but she fought it under control. “Why do you care?”

  He released her hand. “I wanted to warn you that your father’s bad reputation put you in a precarious position socially.” Leaning forward closer to her, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair.

  “I don’t under—”

  “Tell me what you know about your father.”

  She wiped her moist eyes with a lacy handkerchief and looked away. Of all the unpleasant topics he could have brought up this was the worst. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

  “Cecilia, don’t you know by now you can trust me?” His voice didn’t coax her. He merely spoke the truth.

  “My father sent me away.”

  He nodded. “Most of San Francisco doesn’t think highly of your father because of how he treated your mother and everyone else. They were waiting to see if you would take after your mother. Or your father.”

  Auntie’s final words echoed in her mind: “Just like your mother.” Cecy burst into tears.

  Without a pause, he took her hands pulling her up. “Cecilia, I’m not trying to hurt you. We’ve got to figure out what you’re going to do.”

  She knew she should push away from him. She didn’t want any man to hold her. But in the past few days, too much had transpired. And his embrace was so reassuring and strong. I’m so alone—again. She pressed herself deeper into his embrace. Was he going to kiss her? Why didn’t he think her shameless, too?

  The scent of her perfume, a profusion of spring flowers, filled Linc’s head. She was warm, close, so wounded. He bent his head, tempted to brush her lips with his. He whispered her name like a prayer.

  His hold around her tightened, but only to prevent her from pressing nearer. He understood her need to be physically close. But he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. How could he be attracted to this woman when his heart still belonged to his sweet, lost Virginia?

  He continued to hold Cecilia, but he tried to hold her as he would have held Meg. But holding Meg was nothing like holding this vibrant, enticing woman. Still, if he abruptly severed their closeness, she’d feel rejected. But being this near and not giving into the desire to kiss her became torture.

  He yearned to tell her so much, but having a heart-to-heart talk didn’t seem to be what Cecilia needed to pull herself together. He wanted to convince her of God’s love and purpose for her. Everyday, he walked in his own grief, a suffocating fog. Still he knew God waited—willing to heal and guide him. But Cecilia wouldn’t understand this. Yet.

  She stopped crying. Linc urged her back on the other chair and cleared his throat. “We better get busy doing what we came here to do.”

  She eyed him, dabbing at her tear-stained face. “What was that?”

  “I need you to go shopping with me for office furniture.”

  “Shopping?” She stood up. “I couldn’t.”

  “Where we’ll be shopping”—he rose and took her hand—“you won’t meet anyone you know.”

  Soon Cecy walked beside Linc through the vast furniture warehouse near the Embarcadero. Only a few customers, salesmen, and workmen shuffled through the narrow aisles. Cecy and Linc stopped to look at an assortment of leather chairs.

  Linc asked, “Do you think I should go with the red leather or brown?”

  “The red looks more imposing,” she replied in a flat voice. She didn’t care a fig about furniture. She longed to have him hold her again, make her feel safe, wanted. But what did she know about this man? “Is Meg really your daughter?”

  “Does it surprise you that I have a daughter?” He sounded amused.

  She still couldn’t put the bubbly little girl with this man, who was always so serious. Listlessly she stroked the back of a Queen Anne-style chair. “Where’s your wife?”

  “After our son was stillborn, Virginia died in childbirth about eighteen months ago.” He looked away. “How many chairs do you think I should buy?”

  Cecy didn’t like the way he said his late wife’s name with near reverence. While he’d held her in his arms, had he thought of his late wife? “Who’s Susan?”

  “Susan was my mother’s best friend.”

  She stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “That surprises you?” He raised an eyebrow, throwing her on the defensive.

  “I never knew black and white people could be best friends. How did they?”

  “My mother was a Civil War widow who ran a boardinghouse with Susan’s help.” He sat on the arm of a wing-back chair.

  “Then how did you become related to Boston bankers?” She stood in front of him.

  “Through my stepfather.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Oh, your mother married well the second time.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “My mother would have said she married well both times. She adored my father.”

  Doubtful, she ran her fingers over the top of the smooth cool leather of the chair he sat in. No doubt some love matches existed. Anything was possible. “Who’s Del?”

  “Susa
n’s grandson. When he was five, his parents died and Susan and he came to live with me.”

  “I like Meg.”

  His face lit with a brilliant smile. “She’s my treasure.”

  An ache, an old one, clenched within Cecy. Her father hadn’t treasured her.

  “Your father should have treasured you.”

  At hearing her own thought said aloud, she shied like a frightened filly. “I don’t want to talk about him.” A salesman approached them. Cecy glanced away, regaining her composure.

  Linc ordered the four red leather chairs Cecy had preferred. Then the salesman led Cecy and Linc to a section of smaller desks and left them. “Cecilia, did your aunt tell you when she’d be coming back?” Linc asked close to her ear.

  “I don’t think she’s coming back.” He’d forced this admission out of her. Cecy went on comparing wood grain with her finger tips.

  “Your aunt didn’t give you good advice. Now she’s abandoned you.”

  The anger in his voice startled Cecy. Had Auntie misled her?

  He stared over her head. “You’ll stay a few days with me, but it’s imperative you go back to your own house as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry to be an imposition,” she answered stiffly. She wished she could say, “I’ll go home today.” But she couldn’t face that empty house and silent servants.

  “You’re not an imposition.” He glanced down at her, his brows drawn together. “But Susan isn’t an adequate chaperone in the eyes of society.”

  Society. The word stung.

  “You’ll sleep at Mrs. Hansen’s until we find you a chaperone.” He touched her shoulder and changed topics. “Do you like this?”

  “It’s fine.” She scarcely looked at the desk.

  “It could be yours.”

  “Mine?” She stared at him.

  “I’m offering you a position on my weekly journal.”

  “Me? A journalist?”