Mittman, Stephanie

by The Courtship

  He felt sick to his stomach and fought to swallow the bile that rose. Clutching the mass he lifted it from the dresser and held it up, watching the chestnut strands unfurl from his fingertips.

  He could see her out there, just beyond his window, the moon shining for her alone, and he held the cluster out to her. "Why?" was all he could force past his lips. Then, "What have you done?"

  "No one wanted the woman," she said, her chin thrust out proudly as if there were no tears streaking her extraordinary face. "So I got rid of her. You and Cabot should both be very happy."

  She looked almost like a pixie—some sprite, standing there in the moonlight, the wind ruffling her short dark cap, and he thought that if only he could catch her, she could grant his fondest wish.

  "Not that it matters to you any."

  She had been lovely before, but he hadn't realized how truly exquisite she was until now. If she'd hoped to make herself unattractive, she'd failed miserably, horribly, tragically.

  "Well"—she sighed—"as always, I'm freezing." She ducked her head and slipped in through the window like some thief come to steal his heart. "I just wanted to throw some covers over my plants. It's a bit cold for begonias."

  "And as long as you were here you thought you'd just..." He held out the hank of hair that was still in his hand. He imagined it tied with a blue ribbon and tucked away in some chest that would follow him to prison.

  "I saw the scissors," she said, shrugging, as if the act were inconsequential.

  "It's surprisingly lovely," he said, reaching out with his empty hand and hesitatingly touching what little hair remained. He had been intimate with many women—hell, many, many women if he were held to the fire—but nothing was as purely carnal, as erotic, as running his fingers through the cap of short dark hair that surrounded her upturned face.

  "I can't imagine what Cabot will think," she said nervously, touching the wisps that teased her cheek. "Do you suppose I can somehow pin it back on for court?"

  Her hand reached for the curls she'd so cavalierly severed, expecting him to relinquish his hold. He had but one small part of her, these locks of hair, and a memory sullied by his rejection. He did not let go.

  "You smell like rain," he said, taking a step closer so that just inhaling let his body touch hers. "It's wonderful."

  "It's just beginning to mist outside." With him so close to her she had to tip her head back to talk with him. It was an offering he couldn't resist, and he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

  She answered back with a passion that nearly staggered him, and he had no choice, it seemed, but to pull her against him and plant his feet firmly against the rocky seas.

  "If only," he began, wishing away their past—Cabot's accident, all the women he'd lusted after and left, her marriage to his brother; wishing away their futures—his in a jail cell, hers here with a cold man who never so much as took her in his arms.

  "Ssh," she said as his lips traveled across her cheek, traced her chin, and began a trek down her neck to unclaimed territory. "Don't let me go again, Ash. Don't ever let me go."

  He leaned down into her, his lips brushing her temples, his fingers winding their way through her short locks. "Charlie..." he said, trying to pull himself away.

  ***

  She couldn't have him forever. She understood that. A few weeks and his trial would be over, and with any luck at all he'd be back to sea. But for this moment, these few minutes in her special room where all her girlish wishes still had room to roam free, she could touch his cheek and know what he felt like at this one hour of the day.

  And if maybe, by chance, she could see him in the morning, accidentally touch his arm, and then casually brush the hair from his eyes, she could know, too, how he felt in the morning. And then, perhaps at lunch...

  She tipped her lips up toward his and admitted to herself what she suspected he already knew all too well. She was in love with him, head-over-heels-like-some-ridiculous-schoolgirl in love. She loved everything about him—the good things, like how he left her flowers and pretended he didn't know what she was talking about when she tried to thank him; the bad things...

  Oh, Lord! She was so in love, she couldn't think of any bad things. Especially not when he was placing tiny little kisses on the ends of every strand of hair she'd cut.

  "I shouldn't..." he murmured, taking a step back from her and shaking his head as if to clear it.

  "No! Oh, God, don't stop," she said, pushing against him, rubbing her head against his chest, and standing on her toes to reach for his lips.

  "Ashford?" Kathryn's voice was shaky as her cane hit the bottom step. "Are you up there? I don't want to climb up there for nothing."

  Charlotte pulled away first, her hands flying to her lips and then her freshly shorn head.

  "I'm up here," Ash called out to his mother. "Don't bother climbing."

  "Have you found Charlotte?" Worry rang in her voice like church bells on Sunday.

  "Yes." He made no mention of how far away they'd been, how very lost.

  "I was seeing to my begonias," Charlotte chirped, her voice cracking. "And I lost track of the time."

  "Come to dinner," Kathryn said. They heard her pull open the elevator door. "Cabot says he has a surprise for you."

  "Well," Ash said, ruffling her hair and trying to restore the distance that belonged between them, "I'd say you have quite a surprise for him."

  It took her more than a moment to realize he meant her hair.

  ***

  At first they didn't say a word. Oh, poor Kathryn's jaw dropped a couple of inches at the sight of her, but Charlotte was impressed with the older woman's restraint. She didn't scream or tear her hair out, or point a finger and laugh.

  Cabot, of course, didn't need to resort to words. He sighed heavily, rolled his eyes theatrically toward the ceiling, and shook his head. Charlotte had the feeling that there would be a wigmaker at the door come morning.

  "Moss convinced Ewing Flannigan to allow Davis over next weekend," Ash said, breaking the silence at the table. "I think he intimidates the man. Anyhow, with St. Patrick's Day and all, I suppose Flannigan will be laid out cold."

  "How could you have—" Kathryn began, pointing in Charlotte's general vicinity.

  "What ever possessed you—" Cabot said now that the floodgates were open.

  "Oh, Miss Charlotte!" Maria chimed in.

  "Saints preserve us!" the parrot called from the other room.

  "Charlotte, really!" Kathryn said, summing up all their opinions in just two words.

  "Clara Foltz wears her hair bobbed and is taken quite seriously," Charlotte said in her own defense. "I would have thought this would please the lot of you!"

  "Basis?" Cabot asked as if she were arguing a case instead of defending her right to wear her hair any way she damn—yes damn!—pleased.

  "It's self-evident," she snapped back. Who in this house wanted her to be a woman? Surely not Cabot, who had stripped her of lace and finery and given her serge and cigars in their place. Surely not Kathryn, who had convinced the tailor to duplicate men's suits for her daughter-in-law, and who had until just recently encouraged her daughter-in-law to leave the running of the house to her so that Charlotte could concentrate on her work. Surely not Ashford—oh, no, not Ashford, who, while he obviously enjoyed kissing her, had foisted her back on Cabot as a problem of which he didn't want any part.

  "Self-evident? Pray go on. Don't stop now," Cabot said, gesturing with his hand for her to explain.

  "Oh! Oh! Oh! Don't stop!" Ash's parrot shouted from the kitchen. "Oh, God! Don't stop!"

  Charlotte felt her cheeks pinken, then deepen to red. The heat of them burned until she had to press her hands against them to stop the fire. She could feel Cabot's stare and refused to meet his gaze as she glued her eyes to her plate and fought to regain control of her racing heart.

  Ash, she could see without raising her head, had shakily put down his water goblet and was reaching for something stro
nger.

  "Oh, God! Don't stop! Shut up, you stupid bird!"

  Charlotte dropped her head into her hands.

  "Well, well, well," Cabot said softly while Ash opened and closed his mouth several times.

  "I'm just so embarrassed about this hair," she said, fussing with it and rising to look in the mirror. Actually it didn't look nearly as bad as she'd expected it would in the light. Behind her she could clearly see the looks pass between the Whittier brothers and felt at once the guilt that Ash had been bearing alone.

  "I don't know what you could have been thinking," Kathryn said quickly. "You couldn't have expected Cabot to like—that is, it just isn't seemly. What I mean is that—" she tried again.

  Charlotte fought to summon some righteous indignation. Cabot had rejected her, after all. But he had always stood by Ash, even after his brother had caused his accident. And now he had been betrayed.

  "We'll skip the damn soup, Maria," Cabot said when she came through the door with the silver tureen. "I'm sure by now it's cold, and I won't have the main course spoiled. Sit down, Charlotte. I don't want you to miss this."

  She took her chair reluctantly, wishing she were on the moon, or at the North Pole, rather than at her own table seated between her husband and his mother and directly across from his younger brother.

  "Rosa, abre la puerta," Maria said from within the kitchen. "Ayúdame."

  "What have you got up your sleeve, Cabot?" Kathryn asked. "You seem quite pleased with yourself."

  "Well, Mrs. Mason couldn't find Charlotte this morning and so I took the liberty of planning our supper myself." Maria came through the door with a big covered platter. "Ah! What shall we do with it? Take off the cover and show it around first, and then you may put it on the sideboard to carve."

  "Ah! What shall we do with the drunken sailor?" Liberty shrieked from the kitchen just as Rosa took the lid off the platter that Maria held.

  Charlotte stared, shaking her head in disbelief. The hot cider and crackers she'd had at three raced each other up her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand and ordered her body to rise and run. Rubber legs couldn't so much as push her back from the table.

  Across from her, held low enough for everyone at the table to see, on a bed of his own feathers and propped up as if he were proud to be there, sat Argus, the peacock, roasted to a deep golden brown and drizzled with Madeira wine gravy.

  CHAPTER 16

  It had taken a week for her to get up the nerve to ask him for money. Well, it had taken her five days to talk to him at all after the Argus fiasco. And then two more to find a moment they weren't immersed in Ash's case, which was scheduled to begin in less than a week's time. She'd waited until they had some semblance of a defense, what with Perry turning up trumps all over town with all of Ash's old accounts, Greenbough's beans about to pan out, and more than a few tongues willing to wag down by the wharfs now that Cabot had upped the ante considerably.

  And now she'd asked, plain and simple, lawyer to lawyer, partner to partner, man to man.

  And he was just staring at her as if she'd grown another head. "I'm not following your argument, Charlotte," he said, as if she'd pulled a new concept out of thin air. Well, for Cabot she supposed it was. "What exactly do you mean by compensation?"

  "A salary," she said trying not to let the look on his face intimidate her. "Or a share in the profits, since I am your partner."

  "A roof over your head isn't enough? Food on the table and clothes on your back aren't enough? Tickets to the San Francisco Opera House, my mother's pearl earring bobs, all those things are not enough?" He flung some papers toward the out bin that sat on the desk between them.

  "If I were simply your wife," she said, looking at the papers and not taking them, "all of that would be more than adequate. I don't mean to imply for a moment that you are not a generous husband." At least when it came to monetary matters. "But I do believe fervently, ardently, and justifiably, that I am entitled to funds of my own for use at my discretion."

  He returned the pen to the well and set the papers he was working on aside. "Why?"

  "Because I put in a day's work and that entitles me to a day's pay. In fact, I put in a good deal more than a day's work most days. Because the only time off I've taken in the last five years has been for illness, and even at that I recall copying your briefs from my bed."

  "That's unfair, Charlotte, and you know it. I offered to send you abroad with Mother, didn't I? For a grand tour? And not just once. And did I not sit by your side when you had that fever? It was only to keep you abed when you thought you were ready to get up that I let you copy the briefs."

  "You've been very good to me, Cabot, but that doesn't change the fact that I should have been paid for my work."

  "And were you ever charged for your education? You and I both know that the cost of Hastings far exceeded the measly inheritance your grandmother left you. Without me you would never have become a lawyer at all, never mind a better-than-average lawyer with beyond simply adequate skills. Have I asked recompense for that?"

  Too stunned to answer, she just looked at the man she had married for all the right reasons. He was noble, honest, good hearted, and kind. She had admired his passion for the law, and even his love of his precious flowers.

  She had thought him anything but petty. Until now.

  "Are we even, then?" he asked, pulling the papers back in front of him. "And can we actually get some work done this morning? We do have a major case I suspect will affect us both."

  "This smacks of indenture," she replied. And, she supposed from his side it smacked equally well of ingratitude. Still, being without funds left her without options. And it would be worth conceding on the past if she could still get her hands on some small sum that would allow her to start a practice of her own in the future. "But let's say that I was willing to set aside all demands for a salary when I was learning the law. What about once I was admitted to practice, once I began to handle cases, and write briefs, and argue before the court—haven't I been responsible for the generation of revenues? And aren't I entitled to a share of... said revenues?"

  "Why?" he asked again when she paused to take a breath. Leaning forward, pulling himself upright in the extreme, he appeared to hold his breath while he waited for her answer.

  "I think I've explained my position adequately," she began.

  "Yes, I believe you have. And argued well for it too. But my question remains why. Why do you need the money, Charlotte? To what end? Are you thinking of leaving? Is that it? Because before you answer me, I think you should know my response to such a move on your part."

  Where anyone else would have seen a man simply resettling himself in his chair, Charlotte watched Cabot's mind racing, just as she'd watched his movements in the courtroom and had learned to read them. Ordinarily, this would be the moment she would choose to bring him a file, or a glass of water, or provide a distraction that would give him the time he needed to collect his thoughts and present an argument that would appear seamless as a result of her intervention.

  But she wasn't about to help him now, not against herself. Instead she let the moments hang like hours, waiting for him to continue.

  "Should you be entertaining the notion of ending our partnership, understand that I would never ask you to leave here empty handed. On the contrary I would insist you take with you your fair share, which would be all of your cases." He put up his finger to hold her words at bay while he continued, his anger getting the better of him.

  "That means that Davis Flannigan, poor child, will remain on your caseload. But then, you've learned all you need to from me, so I'm sure that you'll be able to convince O'Malley to take the boy from his surviving parent and give him to... well, the boy could be a ward of the court, anyway, since the situation here would be altered considerably.

  "And then there's that ridiculous Halton case. Frankly I'd be happy to see that one go, though you know your involvement does worry me more than a little. Still, the s
ame precautions could be exercised.

  "It's Ashford's trial that really concerns me. Do you think you can win that one on your own? It's a pretty thin defense we've got so far—a few aspersions cast on Greenbough and little else."

  "Ashford's case would be mine?" she questioned.

  "Why?"

  "Really, Charlotte," he said with one eyebrow raised, "do we need to spell it out? Dot i's and cross t's and account for hours that are simply unaccounted for? Wouldn't you prefer to simply remain unaccountable? Consider me a generous man, Charlotte. The cases are yours."

  He was bluffing. She knew he was, even if he wasn't picking lint from his suit or stretching out his knuckles, which were his usual signs. But he'd made his point nonetheless.

  O'Malley would never even hear her reargument in Davis's case. She'd only been granted the reargument because Cabot's name had been on the Notice of Appeal. Alone there wouldn't be anything at all she could do for the boy.

  And Ash! She could never get Ash off by herself, had no illusions that she could. Working together with the strain between them all would make things difficult enough, but Cabot would be able to pull it out. Cabot could make magic happen. Hadn't he made a lawyer out of her?

  "I'm not going anywhere. But I still do feel that it devalues my work not to receive pay for it," she said, trying to give him some reason other than the fact that at the moment she hated him over a stupid bird she'd had no kindly feelings for in the first place.

  The room was silent, save for that droning clock that ticked on and on, winding her nerves as tightly as its spring.

  "I see," he said at last. "I'm glad. And sorry, too, Charlotte, if I've ever made you feel less than essential in any way. Ironic isn't it, that I can be so eloquent in court and yet here I find it so hard to say the things I feel. And so instead I say ridiculous things about the price of your education. I suppose in truth I should have paid you just to come into this room every morning for the good it did my heart."