“God, I wish I could take you on top of your grand piano, Mrs. Dalcourt.”
She laughed; she laughed so hard she almost choked and he had to thump her on the back.
“You two are making a spectacle out of yourselves, as usual,” Henry said, tossing his cape about his shoulders. He looked at Sophie, “As your conductor, all I can say is ‘Carry on.’” He walked away.
“Oh,” Sophie remembered. “We’re going to Carling’s tonight, yes?”
“You know,” Riley said, tilting his head, “we might want to put that off until the morning. I’m prescribing a few hours in bed for you.”
His grin turned wicked, her knees went weak, and she decided her husband was positively genius.
“Well,” she said, taking hold of his outstretched hand. “You’re the doctor.”
###
I would greatly appreciate it if you, dear reader, would take the time to review my book at wherever you purchased this copy.
Thank you,
Sydney Jane Baily
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
I must confess that I took a few liberties, time-wise, with creating the San Francisco Symphony. It did not form officially in the mid-1880s as it does in my story. In reality, it was not until after the terrible 1906 earthquake that a group of businessmen decided that a world-class symphony should be part of the re-built city.
Though there were some local symphonies with whom Sophie Malloy might have played, including the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra in 1896, the San Francisco Symphony Society in 1897, and the Philharmonic Orchestra in 1898, none of these were long-lasting.
The symphony I refer to in this story came to be in 1911 when Henry Hadley, on December 8, 1911, conducted its first performance. Hadley is also in this story, along with many real-life musicians that accompanied him to San Francisco. I also changed their playbill, having them concentrate, in their opening series, on one classical composer each night. In truth, Hadley hit the audience with four big names on opening night: Wagner, Tchaikovsky, Haydn, and Liszt.
Sherman Clay & Company was a real music store that opened in 1870. It was founded by Leander Sherman, who left Boston for San Francisco, just like Sophie. The store might, indeed, have provided the symphony with its concert grand piano. In fact, all the pianos mentioned and described were real, and some still exist, including Sophie’s exquisite Broadwood and Sons grand that her father bought her.
Cheers and happy reading!
Sydney Jane Baily
OTHER WORKS
An Improper Situation (2012)
EXCERPT: An Improper Situation
by Sydney Jane Baily
Chapter One
Spring City, Colorado
Charlotte heard the wagon wheels and the horse’s hooves from where she sat at her desk and raised her head, a frown crossing her otherwise clear features.
“Blazes!” she exclaimed. She was not expecting anyone. Except for Sarah Cuthins, the doctor’s wife, Charlotte and her neighbors weren’t, well, neighborly enough with each other for an uninvited visit. And she could tell just by listening that it wasn’t Sarah’s buggy coming down the road.
She couldn’t see the wagon even if she tried to look out the window, as books were piled high in front of it. Books were, in fact, the dominant feature in the study—on history, modern and ancient languages, classical architecture, mathematics, even oceanology, entomology, and geology. And in the middle of them all, Charlotte sat at her large desk, strewn with papers and with a faded globe perched precariously on one corner.
She lifted her fingers from the keyboard of her typewriter. The invention itself was over a decade old, but her machine—the one extravagant purchase she’d made that year—was new. Anything that took her from it was of great annoyance.
Standing up, she absentmindedly tucked behind her ear one strand of hair that seemed to shimmer with all the colors of autumn. Then she reconsidered and twisted the rest of her waist-length hair up in a loose knot. It wasn’t tidy, but it was better than going to the door all undone, she thought.
The wagon was obviously stopping at her door, so she had no choice but to greet its passengers. Lord, she hoped no one wanted coffee. For that matter, she hoped no one wanted anything, as the kitchen was as bare of food as she was of hospitality and time for interruptions.
Charlotte crossed the well-worn yellow and blue rug, automatically stepping over the small hole in the floorboard as she strode into the hall. It was cluttered with her shoes, coat, umbrella, and various knickknacks, though she didn’t even notice the comfortable mess.
When a sharp knock resounded from the other side of the door, startlingly loud in the silence, she froze. Then she took a deep breath.
“Coming.” Charlotte hoped she didn’t sound as irritated as she felt. No one respected other people’s deadlines! She yanked open the door and then nearly slammed it shut with surprise. Instead, she stepped back with a murmured, “Oh, my!”
Before her was a tall, dark-haired man with the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen, dressed in a well-fitted suit of the neatest charcoal stripe. However, what caused her disconcertion was not his devilish good looks alone, but the two young children standing on either side of him.
The little girl, with two blond braids, was holding the man’s hand while the little boy, who had hair remarkably similar in color to Charlotte’s own and who barely came above the man’s knee, simply clutched the man’s well-tailored pant leg, causing a severe pucker.
“I understand this is the Sanborn homestead.”
His voice brought her attention back to him. She looked up dazedly, her own sparkling green eyes blinking at the late spring sunlight behind him. Perhaps the whole apparition of handsome man and small children might just disappear if she willed it.
“I am Charlotte Sanborn.” Automatically, she stuck out her right hand to the stranger.
He looked at her hand, his face surprised.
“The writer?”
Now she looked stunned. “How on earth . . . ?” she began. No one except the few people in Spring City who cared to find out knew that she was “Charles” Sanborn, the acclaimed writer.
“Excuse me,” he added, “I thought you would be older. That is, I’m delighted to meet you.” A smile crossed his features for the first time, and he took her extended hand in his free one, and with a firm grasp, shook it.
Charlotte felt a shock of warmth and strength and realized it had been a long while since she’d touched someone else’s skin.
“It is an honor and a pleasure,” he continued. “I’ve read much of your work.” His voice was as warm as his hand, and she flushed.
Charlotte was used to praise, having been hailed as a voice of her time for the past few years by the editors with whom she had contact; she was successful in her own uncelebrated and quiet way—of course under the guise of her pseudonym.
However, knowing that this man had sat down with her work in his hands caused her to feel strangely exposed.
“Well, thank you,” she said and stopped. She was waiting. He was waiting. The children were waiting but less patiently. The little boy tugged on the man’s pant leg.
“Are we goin’ in?” he asked, looking not at Charlotte but up at the tall man, who gave him a smile that stirred Charlotte’s sentiment.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured, still thinking of the man’s genuine smile. “Where are my manners?” The little girl just stared at her as if she was wondering the very same thing, and Charlotte quickly moved aside to let them enter. She felt for all the world as if she had suddenly stepped out of her own life. A few moments ago, she would never have imagined a man and two children standing in her entryway.
“I am sorry to barge in on you, Miss Sanborn,” he began, as his eyes took in the untidiness and the disrepair in one quick glance, “but once we arrived in Spring City, I discovered, of course, that there was no telephone system in place as yet.”
They mus
t be from the east, she concluded. “I think it will be a while yet before those of us in Colorado have the benefits of Mr. Bell’s invention.” Having exhausted that topic, she waited again for him to explain himself.
“We hope you are not too inconvenienced, but we tried to be here as close to the appointed time as possible, barring a few mishaps along the way.” This caused both the children to giggle, apparently having been the cause of some of the mishaps.
Charlotte frowned. “The appointed time, sir?”
“The trains were running late along the Topeka-Santa Fe line; a Pullman sleeper had overturned,” he stated.
She nodded, finding nothing more to say, since the entire conversation so far was making no sense to her, and she usually prided herself on her quick understanding.
After a long moment, he frowned. “Miss Sanborn, the children are tired. We stopped only briefly in Spring City to get directions, and I’m sure they’d benefit from a short nap while we talk about their situation. Then, perhaps, some supper would be in order.”
“Supper?” she repeated. The situation wasn’t getting any better. Why would this family come to her house and demand a place to sleep and eat?
She pressed her hand to the side of her head. She’d been working steadily for days to meet her editor’s deadline and she was plum tuckered out. Charlotte was sure that was the reason none of this was coming clear to her.
“Miss Sanborn, is everything all right?” Even this tall, handsome stranger seemed a bit agitated now. His dark eyebrows formed the oddest pattern of straight and wavy lines as he frowned.
“Everything is just peart,” she began, “except I must acknowledge the corn. I haven’t the slightest idea who you are.” She felt better for confessing that.
It was his turn to flush. “But how is that possible? I sent the letter myself.”
“The letter?” At least this wasn’t a random visit by lunatics wanting food, she thought. Perhaps soon they would get to the bottom of this and she could return to her work.
“Yes,” he affirmed. “Are you telling me that you never received correspondence from the offices of Malloy and Associates, posted about a month and a half past?”
“Malloy?” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“Well, I’ve been awfully busy, Mr. . . . ah—”
“It’s Malloy. Reed Malloy.” He said it slowly as if speaking to a child, but his voice registered a tone of definite annoyance.
“You needn’t get in a pucker, sir. I didn’t realize you meant that you were . . .,” but Charlotte broke off, deciding to ignore his tone. “Let me take a look in my study. It’s possible that something came and got overlooked. Editors forward a lot of mail from people who read my work. I don’t always get a chance to look through it right away,” she added apologetically.
She turned and entered her study, stepping delicately over the unsightly hole. The good Lord knew she often let the papers and envelopes just pile up. It was an unfortunate habit, and she would have to allow that it looked as if it had her in some deep trouble now.
She heard them follow her, all three of them, trailing behind, as she went to her desk and began to sift through the papers on the edge of it. When these finally slid to the floor, she bent to try another pile that already had collapsed off of a small oval Pembroke table, with its leaves always in the up position to accommodate more stray papers and books.
“It’s amazing that your work, which seems to come from such an orderly mind, can be created here, in this chaos,” observed the man behind her.
At his tone, she looked up. He seemed genuinely displeased, and she felt a little like a naughty school girl in front of the teacher. His sapphire eyes bore into hers for a second and she felt the same jolt as when he’d taken her hand.
She was the first to look away, continuing to rummage through the papers and then moving to a stack of Scientific American mixed with Yale Literary Magazine, ignoring his remark.
Charlotte wanted to tell him how she used to be organized, how she used to have food in the pantry, and wood ready for the fires, and not a speck of dust anywhere . . . she wanted to, but it would be a bald-faced lie. It had ever been this way—chaotic, at best. Her mind, however, was sharp and orderly and with it, she created works that were concise, easily understood, and a step ahead of her peers.
“Some of us have time to do housework,” she commented lightly, “while others of us put our minds to more important things, such as . . . aha!”
“Did you salvage something, Miss Sanborn?”
She stood up and faced them, triumphantly waggling the cream-colored envelope with Malloy and Associates embossed in blue lettering on one side. “Here it is.”
Charlotte recalled now having received it, even remarking over the blue ink and placing it on her desk to read after dinner, and then . . .
She looked guiltily up at the dark-haired stranger with his flashing eyes. The seal had not even been broken.
“Well, perhaps you should open it and see why we’re here,” he continued evenly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “though perhaps you could do that somewhere where we can all sit down. The children are growing tired.”
“Oh, of course.” She had been caught out again without manners. Her mother would be appalled. Though, for the sake of her husband, Regina Sanborn had grown tolerant of the relative cultural vacuum in the west, she had, nevertheless, tried to instill in her bookish daughter a sense of propriety and manners and social graces. Charlotte failing miserably, and knew in her heart that this was why she welcomed her own isolation.
“Please, come this way.” She went between the boy and girl who still stared at her as if she were the latest exhibit at the fair, and headed off down the hallway to the parlor. She tossed open the door and froze; how long had it been since she’d use this room. It was dark and musty, and, frankly, it smelled like a horse blanket.
“Excuse the a . . . well, I don’t entertain much. Let me just air it out a bit, but come in, come in and find a seat.”
In the dark gloom, she could barely make out the furniture, all relics from her mother’s day. She went directly over to the windows, pulling aside the heavy curtains, and opening the shutters, letting the fresh spring air flood the room, bringing with it the scent of the purple-flowered fireweed that grew all around the house.
Unfortunately, when she got to the third window, she opened the curtains and saw cracked panes of glass and a board nailed onto the sashes from outside. She hastily drew the curtain closed, hoping the elegant man in her parlor had not noticed.
She turned to face her guests who had spread themselves gingerly around the room. By the look on his face, it was undeniable that Mr. Malloy had seen the poor repair job. The little boy sat directly next to the man on the high-backed sofa in front of the rough stone fireplace with its faded, embroidered screen, and rifle hanging above; the little girl had taken one of the petit-point cushioned chairs.
Charlotte was well aware of the dust still settling after they’d seated themselves. As she crossed the room, she noticed Reed Malloy’s stare of disapproval. She sat in the only seat left, a small mauve-colored chair with bits of horsehair sticking out where it shouldn’t be, and took the letter out of her skirt waistband.
She opened it and skimmed the salutation and the niceties and then suddenly caught her breath.
“I take it you’ve reached the part where . . .,” he began.
“Blazes!” Charlotte jumped out of her seat. “She gave the children to me? Is she mad? Does she understand—?”
“She is deceased, Miss Sanborn.”
Charlotte sat down again quickly, her gaze going to the children who didn’t seem to understand that the adults were speaking about their mother, Ann Connors. She turned her attention again to Reed Malloy, looking decidedly grave, his eyebrows once more in a fierce, straight line.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I had heard. My aunt, Alicia Randall, the children’s grandmother, wrote to me about
the tragedy.”
Charlotte didn’t bother to add that it was the only time she’d heard from her aunt since her own parents died nearly a decade earlier.
“You must understand, Mr. Malloy, I have never met my cousin, Ann, and we had only exchanged a few letters during the years. To say we were not close would be to put it mildly. My parents moved here from Boston before I was born.” She paused, remembering what her aunt’s letter described.
“It was a collision between my cousin’s carriage and a horse car, as I recall. I know it is doubly hard with their father having died two years ago—”
“Three,” Reed Malloy corrected, his glittering gaze never wavering.
“Three,” she agreed, nodding. “In the light of this, I ask, why me as a guardian? Why not their grandmother?”
He stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa. “For one thing, their grandmother, your aunt, is nearly seventy years old. I don’t believe your cousin thought that Alicia Randall would be an ideal mother.”
Seventy, thought Charlotte. She hadn’t known her mother’s older sister was so much older.
“Secondly,” he continued, “while you might not have given much thought to the eastern branch of your family, Miss Sanborn, your cousin obviously gave a great deal of thought to you. Ann Connors had read all your work; in fact, it was she who first introduced me to your literary endeavors. She was one of your greatest admirers.”
Charlotte felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach, and a lump came into her throat at the thought of Ann, a cousin who knew so much about her when she, herself, hadn’t even felt much grief at the announcement of her death . . . until now.
However, her life was set and she liked it this way. She had no close friends, only acquaintances with whom she corresponded; she had her various editors who checked in with her to assign an article or push her on a deadline, and one younger brother who popped up from time to time only to make her miss him all the more when he went away again.
An Irresistible Temptation Page 27
