Charlotte wasn't at all surprised when the boy shook his head.
"Ah, eleven, then."
The boy didn't confirm or deny, and Ashford dropped the question, probably as sure as she was that the boy wasn't a day over ten. She did notice, however, that the boy came down off his toes, satisfied that Ash hadn't taken him for some mere child.
But then it seemed to her, hidden somewhere in their verbal duel, that Ash hadn't taken her for some mere woman, either.
CHAPTER 6
Ash sat with Cabot in his office, hearing the quiet voices of Charlotte and Moss next door. Spread out across the desk were pages of notes Selma had managed from memory.
"So the theory is that Sam's been skimming off the top all along?" Ash asked. "I still don't see how that would tie in with the fire, even if I could get myself to believe that he's been clever enough to steal from me for years."
Cabot raised an eyebrow as if to say it didn't take a genius to manage some thimblerigging where Ash was concerned. "The idea is to cast aspersions on your partner and feed him to the jury as a rational alternative to you. If the man can be proven to be a thief, it isn't so big a leap to assume he could have set a fire to cover up his crime as well," Cabot answered, drawing an asterisk beside each of the edibles that Ash had brought to Oakland over the last while.
"It doesn't seem to you a rather wide chasm between pocketing a bit of profit and torching a warehouse?" Ash pointed to an entry Cabot had missed and his brother added a star to it.
"Whose side are you on?" Cabot asked with a theatrical sigh as he continued drawing lines between the buyers and the merchandise on his papers. "You seem, if not anxious to lose your freedom, at least resigned to it."
He supposed, in a way, he was. Actually, he'd been waiting for it for years, expecting it, maybe even looking forward to the day he would finally be handed the bill for his brother's injuries. In the beginning he'd expected a first-class whooping for venturing out onto the roof outside the high room. After all, he'd been six and only knew the kind of punishment that came from his father's hand or, on rare occasions, his strap.
But everyone had been so busy with Cabot and the doctors that it seemed they'd all but forgotten him. He'd waited for the blame to come home, waited for them all to turn on him, to take their love away, waited for them to banish him from his home.
And when they didn't, he banished himself, became a vagabond whose only home was a ship with a fickle anchor. And he asked them for nothing at all, accepted nothing from them.
Occasionally, he would buy love wherever it happened to be for sale—something to do while he waited.
But there had never been any question in his mind that someday there would be a price to pay. Maybe it was what made him so reckless.
"You could be right," he said, watching his brother pore over each of Selma's scribblings as if the arsonist's name were hidden in there like one of those puzzles they sometimes stuck in the back of the newspaper. "Maybe it's just time to pay my debts. Still, it doesn't feel quite right for me to be rotting in jail for something I didn't do when there are so many things I have. I mean, where's the divine retribution in that?"
Cabot stopped fiddling with the order of his papers and stared at him uncomprehendingly. How could Ash explain that he had expected a more appropriate punishment in the end? That he was still looking for meaning where there was none, and searching for forgiveness in a house where the blame still hadn't been assessed?
"Divine retribution isn't in our hands," Cabot said, trying to pull their focus back to the matter before them. "Our job is to see justice done, to bend the system to the circumstances, to wrest your freedom from twelve men heady with their own importance. Our job is to see you found blameless in their eyes and to hell with the Divine!"
***
Charlotte heard Cabot raise his voice and smiled apologetically at Moss Johnson, who sat across from her in her office. She knew how protective Moss was of his boss, how he was Ash's right-hand man whenever his boss was in port. Yesterday Selma had sworn her undying devotion to Ashford. Today it appeared to be Moss Johnson's turn.
Over the flowers that had mysteriously appeared on her desk, she studied the big man who filled to overflowing the leather chair across from her. On his face was the evidence of every fight, legal or otherwise, in which he'd ever had the misfortune to take part. His left eyebrow was bisected by a scar, his right one was half gone beneath a mound of bumpy blue-black skin.
Beneath his brows two deep brown watery eyes blinked furiously, fighting tears.
"I didn't wanna give no statement," Moss told her again. "They made me, I swears it."
"Did you say anything that wasn't true?" Charlotte asked.
He studied the hat in his hands and shook his head so slightly that Charlotte would have missed it if she hadn't been looking for it. "Then don't worry about the statement, Mr. Johnson," she said softy. "It didn't do Mr. Whittier any harm."
He looked at her doubtfully, and she hedged.
"All right. It didn't do him any more harm than was already done." She laced her hands and leaned forward across the desk. "Now the question is, how can you help him? And the answer is, by telling me everything you know about Mr. Greenbough's business dealings in the last few months. Miss Mollenoff has already told me about how poorly the business is doing. I understand that a ship went down off the coast about six months ago and they took quite a loss."
"Not that you could tell by Mr. Greenbough," Moss said with a huff. "He still be smokin' them two-for-a-quarter cigars like nothin' be wrong."
"Really?" she asked, not all that surprised. Greenbough would be where she'd put her money, if she were a betting woman. She'd been on the qui vive when it came to him right from the beginning, but Cabot had warned her not to jump to any conclusions. His goal was simply to exonerate Ash, not necessarily to place the blame on someone else. She'd like to know what he'd make of this little piece of information.
"I can't do no testifyin' against that boy Ash, Miz Whittier. No one can do nothin' to me that ain't already been done, and they ain't gonna make me say another word against him, true nor false." He crossed his arms over his chest as if that was the end of it.
The door from Cabot's office opened and Ash stepped through it, nodding to her politely and placing a hand on Moss's shoulder as he passed. "Thanks for believing in me," he said, his voice gruff, his eyes on the floor as he passed through her room toward the hall.
She wondered which of them he was talking to and decided it was Moss. "You're very fond of him," she said to the big man when Ash had shut the door behind himself. Was there, she wondered, anyone as fond of her, or of Cabot, as Moss and Selma were of Ashford Whittier? Surely she and her husband were as well respected— more so, actually.
But loved? She doubted either one of them engendered such loyalty, and couldn't help wonder what it was about Ash that had even her in his corner.
Moss hunched his shoulder and rolled it in a few big circles. "Ain't nothing like a few good thrashings to make a man old before his time," he said as he massaged his left shoulder vigorously.
Was it Davis Flannigan's left arm or his right that was in a sling? She couldn't remember. Why hadn't Dr. Mollenoff given her any instructions about tending to the boy? She could see for herself he was better, but for how long? And would Cabot allow him to stay? Maybe Ash could convince him if she could not. Ash could probably convince a squirrel to lay eggs if that was what he set his mind to.
"That's all for now," she said abruptly, coming to her feet so quickly that her cup of tea went spattering to the floor, sending a hundred tiny shards in every direction. Her hands shook as she crouched down to pick up each tiny piece of the last of her mother's old china cups.
She needed to talk to Cabot, needed him now, to tell her that Davis wouldn't spend his life as someone's punching bag. Tell her, too, that someone cared for her as much as Moss did for his boss. And most of all she wanted his assurance that the world of law she so
desperately wanted to be part of wasn't as inhuman as Ashford kept trying to imply.
Instead she waved away Moss's clumsy attempts to help her, and gathered into the trash the remnants of her precious cup while Moss moved the saucer into the center of her desk and out of harm's way.
"Mr. Flannigan's here, señora." Maria's voice followed a soft knock and then was drowned out by several sets of footsteps.
"It's my son I'm coming for," the man said. Charlotte came to her feet quickly, taking his measure as she did. He was cleaner, better dressed, and more presentable than she'd expected. He was also a good deal handsomer. He didn't reek of alcohol, his nose wasn't red and bulbous. He held his hat in one hand and rubbed the fingers of the other nervously against the buttons of his coat. "And I'm trusting the lad weren't no trouble."
"Davis is hardly the problem here," she said, extending her hand just the way Cabot would. "I'm Charlotte Whittier. You are Mr. Flannigan, I presume?"
"Ewing Flannigan," he said with a slight nod of his head. Behind him she could see Ashford, his hand on Davis's shoulder.
In the other room Charlotte heard Cabot cough. It was his signal for her to come into his office for instructions. She ignored him and introduced Moss to Mr. Flannigan.
"Mr. Johnson was a fighter of some renown," she said, though she had no doubt that Ewing Flannigan knew him by reputation and that if he had any doubt whether this was the Moss Johnson it was removed when Moss came to his feet and towered over him.
Flannigan nodded. And swallowed.
"I hope you don't mind," she said as sweetly as she could feign under the circumstances, "but I've invited Davis to visit us again next weekend."
Cabot coughed more loudly, pointedly. Flannigan's eyes darted to the inner office door, but Davis's, Ash-ford's, and Moss's all stayed glued to her.
"Dr. Mollenoff will bring him here on Friday and you may come to pick him up Sunday evening, provided you are in a condition to do so."
"You've got no right," Flannigan mumbled, apparently too afraid to speak up in the presence of Moss.
Charlotte motioned to Davis, who came and stood next to her. He came up only an inch or two higher than Moss's silver belt buckle. "You talk to me of rights, Mr. Flannigan? What of his rights? The right to be loved, cared for, safe? I can't do anything about the first two, but I can secure his safety in a court of law, if I have to—"
"Charlotte!" Cabot's voice shook the paintings on the wall.
"I will!" she said making sure she was loud enough for Cabot to hear.
"Would you like me to show Mr. Flannigan and Davis out?" Ash offered softly. "If you're through, that is. It appears that he needs you," he said, gesturing with his head toward Cabot's door.
"Thank you. I believe we're finished." She tipped her head sideways toward Mr. Flannigan, waiting for him to differ.
"He's my boy," Mr. Flannigan said, putting a protective arm around him.
"You'd do well to remember that," Charlotte said in response, before turning away to wipe her sweaty palms down her brown serge skirt so that she'd be able to grasp the knob on Cabot's door.
Behind her she felt Ash's breath against her ear. The knots in her stomach tightened. "Well done, counselor."
She had been scared to death facing Ewing Flannigan. He was a man with a temper and she was bound to rile him. Moisture had collected between her breasts, her mouth was dry, her legs shaky. At Ash's kind words her eyes flooded with tears and she yanked the door to her husband's office open, and hurried in.
"I'll be out back with Kathryn," Ash called in over her head. "She wants to sit and look at the lake. Call me if you need me," he said as he closed the door behind him.
She was halfway to Cabot's desk before she could see him clearly through her tears. With a frown he pointed to the chair across from him, indicating that she sit in it.
"Well, you've made quite a mess of things, Charlotte. The boy will be lucky to make it home before his father beats the tar out of him for your meddling."
It was what she had feared more than anything, yet she'd forged ahead heedless of the consequences. She buried her head in her hands and felt the enormity of what she'd done descend on her.
"For heaven's sake, don't come all to pieces now," Cabot said, reaching into his pocket and pushing a hankie at her. "It isn't that bad."
"But I broke my mother's cup," she said before dissolving into a puddle at the edge of his desk.
"Yes, I know," he said. "I heard it break. Sit down and try to compose yourself. Do you want a brandy?"
She shook her head.
Cabot thrummed his finger pads against his desk while he stared at her, his lips a thin line, waiting impatiently for her to calm down.
"I broke her cup," she said again. With all that had gone on in her office, why was that the only thing she could say? "And he has scars all over, Moss does. And Selma keeps saying it's her fault and"—she sniffed loudly—"I broke my mother's cup."
"I can't deal with you when you're like this," Cabot said as if he were dismissing her, then began thumbing through the papers on his desk. "Perhaps you'd like to go wash your face. My comments can wait a few minutes."
"What comments?" She took the hankie he held out to her and blew her nose.
"Charlotte, your actions have just put that boy in a most untenable situation," he said, backing away from his desk while she blew her nose and searched for her dignity in the folds of the soggy hankie. When he was finally free of the desk he rolled the chair over to the front window and looked out. "Well, no blood on the steps at any rate. Perhaps I'm just overreacting. Go wash your face and meet me in the conservatory in half an hour or so. That long enough?"
He stopped his chair inches from the one in which she sat and studied her, waiting for an answer.
Silently she nodded and watched him struggle with the door. At last, Arthur showed up and wheeled him from the room.
***
Ash had found Kathryn in the parlor, watching as Davis and his father made their way down the long walk to the front gate. She had shaken off his invitation to sit out back and watch the doings on Lake Merritt, and instead he had helped her up to her room and gone on up to his. He wondered just how long he'd be able to amuse himself within the confines of Whittier Court before his need to find out who'd set his warehouse afire sent him out. Just how long would he be able to obey the rule of law his brother lived by before he listened to the rule of man that governed his own heart.
Earlier he had tried in vain to introduce the rabbit to Liberty, hoping that Liberty would then at least be able to share his room instead of being relegated to the kitchen, where he scandalized the cook with his language. Van Gogh had sought refuge under his bed and now Ash lay on his back beneath his bedsprings trying to convince the little fellow that Liberty was gone and it was safe to come out.
With the mattress above him and dustballs tickling his nose, he heard his door open and close. Tilting his head to the side he could see her boots as she walked past the bed. He heard her sigh and the sobs that followed it, then watched the bed as it curved slightly toward him under her meager weight. He lay stock still, his outstretched arm just inches from her foot, listening to her ragged breathing and wondering whether he should make his presence known.
It could be that she would simply take a minute to collect herself and be gone, none the wiser that he'd been privy to what she'd no doubt consider an embarrassment. Best, he decided, to wait her out.
And it might have been a good idea, too, and probably worked if that sneaky rabbit—after giving Ash a disdainful look—hadn't crept out from under the bed and rubbed up against her shoe.
"Hello, cutie-pie," she said, and he watched her hand come down and gently scoop up the bunny. "I suppose you're not surprised I've done it again."
Now, he thought. You'd best come out from hiding now before she says something you aren't meant to hear.
But he didn't move.
She adjusted herself on the bed, and her feet d
isappeared from view. Stretched out across his bed, she sighed heavily. Above him the bed undulated, taking his insides along for the ride.
"I should have let Cabot handle it," she told the rabbit. "I don't know who I thought I was to take on the boy's father."
He put his hands up against the bottom of the mattress, easing his fingers between the cords that supported it as best he could, and stroked it gently, softly, so she wouldn't feel it—so that the solace was his alone.
"I try so hard," she told the bunny. "But I'm quite the sow's ear still, aren't I?"
He swallowed hard, feeling it in his temples, nearly bursting them, and pushed his fingers farther beneath the ropes until the weight of the mattress pressed them tight. For a moment, a second, the pain distracted him. But then she spoke again.
"And despite my best efforts I can't control these silly tears. I'm ridiculous, you realize," she told the rabbit. "Cabot is right, of course. He's always right."
Ash closed his eyes and sucked his lips between his teeth, biting down hard on them to keep from uttering a hundred words of comfort. Cabot's an idiot, a fool. You are a wonder just as you are. Extraordinary. Perfect.
"Just look at me, talking to animals and crying like some child when I ought to be taking care of business. All right. I'm done feeling sorry for myself." She sat up, crushing Ash's fingers mercilessly as she wiggled her behind to the edge of the bed.
He forgot to take a breath, but she took a deep enough one for both of them and he imagined the starched white shirtwaist she wore filling out its pleats and then returning to itself.
One foot was on the floor.
He pulled his left hand from within the mattress ropes.
A second foot. A swish of serge. The creak of his window being raised. Like some intruder—and what else was he if not that?—he silently freed his right hand and scooted far enough so that he could watch as she climbed from his window out onto the roof beyond the high room.
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