The feeling of awkwardness grew. I’m sure Robert felt it, too, for after several bleak attempts at conversation, he rose, ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, then left, promising to meet us at the Grand Opera House in time for the performance.
He was as good as his word. The next night we found Robert
standing in front of the theater, a red-brown bear surrounded by the cream of San Francisco Society. It was difficult not to smile at the sight of the testy attorney, fashionably attired in top hat and tails, the snug coat and trousers betraying the fact that they must be borrowed. I only hoped the straining seams were up to the task of holding in his muscular six-foot-four-inch frame.
The Opera House was packed as we took our seats in the dress circle. Above us glittered the brilliant chandelier boasted to be the largest and grandest in the country. All about us sat men in elegant nightclothes and women resplendent in silks, laces and fine jewels. Seated in a box to our right, I was interested to spy Senator Broughton and his wife, Martha. I studied the politician from behind my program, but could detect no outward sign of the injuries he’d sustained from the attack the previous week. His mood, however, did not appear affable; at one point he spoke sharply to his wife and I saw her recoil from the sting of his words. After that, they sat in stony silence, each seemingly engrossed in their program. Through my opera glasses, however, I could detect tears shimmering in Mrs. Broughton's eyes.
I thought back to the night of Frederick's party and the scene that had played out between the couple after Mills's abrupt departure. Despite the devoted faces the Broughtons put on for the electorate, I wondered about the true nature of their relationship. They’d been together twenty years, but that didn’t mean it was a happy marriage. Too many couples, I thought sadly, continued on rather than face the harsh judgment of a society that considered divorce not only a scandal, but also a failure of character.
“If you stare any harder at that man, you’ll bore a hole through his head,” Robert said, startling me out of my thoughts.
“That's Senator Broughton and his wife,” I explained softly.
“I know well enough who it is. I also know why you’re studying him like a bug under a microscope. You’re still trying to connect his attack last week to his partners’ deaths.”
“I refuse to argue the obvious. Especially to someone too thickheaded to know the truth if it—”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” he cut in, his elevated voice attracting Mama's attention. She raised a cautionary eyebrow, but Robert was oblivious. “The blinders you wear prevent you from seeing any further than your own biased—”
“Oh, do be quiet!” I told the irksome man. “The performance is about to begin.”
The house lights dimmed and the orchestra struck its opening chords, causing me to forget my irritation. As usual with Verdi, I was swept away by the natural force and spontaneity of his music. Unlike Wagner, whom I admire but occasionally find too deliber-ate,Verdi's simple directness spoke to my soul. When I glanced surreptitiously at Robert, I was amazed to discover that he, too, seemed mesmerized by the performance. I looked quickly away, ashamed to admit that I hadn’t expected him to understand, much less appreciate,Verdi's mastery. It was annoying to discover I’d been wrong, and for a brief moment I wondered what other surprises he was hiding.
During intermission, we enjoyed champagne with friends of my parents, and it wasn’t until after the performance that I again caught sight of the Broughtons. Papa saw them, too, as we left the theater and called out to the senator, but Broughton appeared not to hear. Without slackening his step, he took his wife's arm and started across the street toward their waiting carriage.
What happened next was over so quickly that even now it's difficult to recall the event with any real clarity. I remember commenting to Papa that finding a cab in this crowd wasn’t going to be
easy when I saw the blur of a four-wheeled phaeton rounding the corner. To my shock, it made directly for Senator Broughton and his wife. I expected the driver to slow his horse, then watched in horror as the animal accelerated, spurred on by a man dressed entirely in black, with a dark hat pulled low over his eyes. I could see nothing of his face, only the snapping of the reins in gloved hands, urging the horse ever closer to the couple.
Belatedly, the senator spotted the phaeton and tried to hurry his wife across the street and out of its path. But Mrs. Broughton stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the carriage like a frightened deer. With a cry, her husband tugged on her arm. At the same moment, the driver swerved the phaeton toward the spot where, a moment before, Broughton had been standing, but where he had now pulled his wife.
I’ll never forget the look of terror on Martha Broughton's face as the carriage bore down upon her. She made no sound; at least I can remember none. Even if she had, it's doubtful I would have heard it over the screams of horrified bystanders. Robert claims that my own screams were loudest of all, and that he had to physically restrain me from rushing headlong into the street.
As I say, it was over in a minute, but it's a minute that will remain forever etched in my mind. To this day I relive the horror in my dreams, watching helplessly as the phaeton bears down upon the terrified woman until my cries awaken me.
I realize that the guilt I feel is irrational, yet no matter what I do it won’t abate. I’d been so close—mere feet away—yet I had been powerless to avert the tragedy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mrs. Broughton's death sent shock waves through the city. As a senatorial candidate, Frederick pounced on the opportunity, demanding that laws be passed to ensure that San Francisco's populace was safe on its increasingly congested streets. While it was true that traffic mishaps were growing at an alarming rate, there was no doubt in my mind that Mrs. Broughton's death had been intentional. Everything had happened in a few blurred moments, but I was certain that at the last minute the phaeton driver had deliberately swerved his horse toward the senator. If Broughton hadn’t moved, he would very likely have received the brunt of the carriage's force and his wife might have escaped serious injury. The act had been premeditated. Someone had wanted to see the Broughtons dead. But had the object been to kill them both, I asked myself, or just one?
I thought I knew, although so far I’d found no way to prove my theory. Indeed, reports of the incident were considerably muddled. Robert and I appeared to be the only witnesses who had actually
taken note of the driver; everyone else's attention had been focused on the Broughtons and the carriage bearing down upon them. And while he and I agreed on the driver's appearance, the authorities once again seemed maddeningly incapable of seeing the truth. They refused to connect the phaeton driver with the man who had earlier assaulted Senator Broughton, despite the fact that both descriptions matched perfectly.
My entire family, save the children, attended the funeral, arriving in two carriages hired by Papa for the occasion. A crowd had already formed in front of the church by the time we made our appearance. I spied Joseph Shepard, and not far from him, Thomas Cooke, Annjenett's father. His face was gray and deeply lined and he seemed even more distracted than when I’d last seen him at the jail. I thought of going over and speaking to him, but what could I say? Despite all my grand promises, his daughter remained locked up in city jail.
My gaze moved on and I saw Eban Potter standing alone on the church steps, looking uncomfortably out of place in such distinguished company. Excusing myself to my parents, I moved to speak to him.
“This is horrible, horrible,” he said, mopping his head with a handkerchief.
I silently agreed. Sudden, unexpected death like that was always tragic, especially when it was likely a monstrous mistake.
“Were you acquainted with Mrs. Broughton?” I asked.
“Not much of late, but when Cornelius—Mr. Hanaford—and the others returned from the mines, I saw rather more of her. She was a fine woman—a credit to the community.”
“Yes, I’m sure she was.” I lowered m
y voice. “You’re convinced then that Mrs. Broughton's death was accidental?”
His gray eyes widened in surprise. “My dear Miss Woolson, what else could it be?”
The time to equivocate was long passed. “Don’t you think it's odd that this should happen so soon after the knife attack on Mr. Broughton? Have you considered that he might have been the intended victim and not his wife?”
He stared at me in seeming astonishment. “You think the driver of the phaeton meant to kill Mr. Broughton? But why?”
“There's the matter of the tontine,” I reminded him, and watched his face light with comprehension.
“But that would mean—” His voice trailed off as he looked over my shoulder. Following his gaze, I saw Benjamin Wylde alight from a carriage, then turn to assist his daughter, Yvette.
“No,” he went on, shaking his head. “I can’t countenance such a thing. Without divulging particulars, I assure you that Mr. Wylde's affairs are in perfect order. He’d have no reason to resort to such desperate measures.”
“What if I told you that over the past year he's experienced financial reversals?”
He regarded me sharply, as if wondering how I might have obtained such confidential information. “I would be very shocked indeed, Miss Woolson. Where did you hear such a thing?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. But my source was reliable. You must agree it lends credence to my theory.”
His skeptical gaze traveled once more to Wylde and his daughter as they stood speaking to Frederick and Henrietta. To my disgust, I saw that my brother was taking advantage of the meeting to pursue his senatorial cause. This was hardly the place for levity, but I couldn’t help smiling at the dazed look on Wylde's face. For once the unpleasant attorney and I agreed; I often had the same
reaction when forced to listen to one of Frederick's rambling dissertations.
“Regardless of your source, Miss Woolson,” the banker said, recalling me to the business at hand, “I can’t believe such a thing. There must be another explanation.”
“There may be,” I admitted truthfully. “But for Mrs. Hanaford's sake I have no choice but to examine every possibility.”
Instantly, his face grew pained. “Surely the police can’t still think her guilty.”
“Unfortunately, they do. At the very least they consider her an accessory to murder.”
“But that's monstrous!” When I nodded agreement, his face softened and he took hold of my hand. “I know you’re doing all you can for the poor woman, but you must exercise the utmost care.” His intense eyes bore into mine. “Trust me, Miss Woolson, there are forces of evil at work here. Promise me you’ll be very cautious.”
The passion of his words took me by surprise. His pale face had drained of color as he squeezed my hand almost painfully.
“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Potter. What do you mean by ‘forces of evil’?”
“You’re very young, my dear. I pray you’ll never experience the evils of which I speak.” He gave me a weak smile and released my hand. “Come, it's time. We must go inside.”
Looking around, I realized we were among the last few mourners remaining outside the church.
“I have faith that right will triumph and that Mrs. Hanaford will soon be proven innocent,” he added with conviction.
He turned away before I could reply and entered the church. I followed, to find that my family had reserved a seat for me in a pew several rows behind Senator Broughton and an elderly woman
whom Celia whispered was his late wife's mother. The senator sat ramrod straight, head facing the altar. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed that he was holding himself tightly in check. Was he afraid his emotions might prove an embarrassment, I wondered? Surely at such a time it was forgivable to show one's bereavement. No one would fault him for publicly betraying his grief.
But were his emotions those of grief? I remembered the man's behavior toward his wife the night of the opera, and realized again how little I knew about their personal life. I forced myself to consider the possibility that, for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess, Broughton had hired someone to injure his wife. The idea was so appalling that I was instantly ashamed. Besides, it made no sense. Even if the senator had wanted to see his wife dead, surely paying a man to hit her with a carriage was too risky, not only to himself but to innocent bystanders.
My gaze moved to Benjamin Wylde, who sat with his daughter across the aisle. The girl was crying softly into a handkerchief, her lovely face a mask of grief. Her father, dressed in a dark suit and a starched, high-winged collar, stared unblinkingly at the pulpit as the minister eulogized Mrs. Broughton. Studying that sharply chiseled face, I again found myself wondering if it was because of this man that three people were dead. What was going on in his mind, I asked myself? Was he consumed by guilt for having taken an innocent life? Or was Mrs. Broughton's death merely a temporary setback to his plans, which he would soon rectify? At this thought, my earlier doubts about Broughton vanished and I felt a rush of fear for the senator. Even if I was wrong about Wylde being the killer, Broughton's life was almost certainly in danger.
When the service was over, we took our place behind other mourners waiting to offer sympathy to the widower. Broughton was very pale and his grief seemed genuine, but I was sure I also
detected a strong note of fear. As he received each mourner, his eyes darted about the church as if he were looking for someone. The person responsible for his wife's death, I wondered? The killer he knew would return to finish the job he’d started?
When it was our turn, the senator politely accepted our condolences, then introduced his wife's mother, Mrs. Matthia Reynold, who, he informed us, resided with him and his late wife.
“Were you close to my daughter?” Mrs. Reynold asked Mama in a loud voice, as the hard of hearing are prone to do. Despite the elderly woman's proud carriage, it was possible to see her red-rimmed eyes beneath the thin black veil. She appeared frail and unutterably sad, and my heart went out to the old lady as I imagined the extent of her sorrow.
“We worked together on several charities,” Mama said with a kind smile. The old woman obviously felt Mama's sincerity, for she held onto her hands with thin, arthritic fingers. “Martha was a tireless worker,” Mama went on. “She’ll be sorely missed.”
Tears filled the old woman's eyes. “Indeed she will. Many's the time I told her she worked too hard. More than was appreciated by some people.” To my surprise, the old woman glared at Broughton. Mama looked at me, as taken aback as I by the woman's malevolence.
Broughton's face flushed red and I sensed the effort it took to keep his voice civil. “It's been a long day, Mother-in-law. I think it's time we returned home.” He took her arm, but she pulled away with a strength surprising for such a tiny woman.
“I’m not in the least tired,” she snapped, and turned back to Mama. “I’d be pleased if you’d call on me, Mrs. Woolson. It would be a comfort to speak to one of Martha's friends.” Again she shot a meaningful look at her son-in-law.
Mama smiled warmly. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Reynold.”
I started to follow Mama out of the church, then noticed Yvette Wylde approaching Mrs. Reynold. Looking around, I saw her father speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. Telling Mama I’d join the family shortly, I waited until Yvette had paid her respects, then contrived to cross her path as she moved back toward her father.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feigning embarrassment. “I fear I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
Up close, I realized that Yvette was one of the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen. Fleetingly, I wondered how a grim man like Wylde had managed to produce such a delightful creature.
“Please, madame, do not distress yourself,” she said with the charming trace of a French accent. “Mrs. Broughton's death has been a shock to us all.”
“Yes, it's a terrible tragedy.” I proffered my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I�
��m Sarah Woolson. And you are—?”
“Je m’excuse, Miss Woolson. I am Yvette Wylde. I have come from Paris to visit my father, Monsieur Wylde. You know him perhaps?”
“As a matter of fact I do, Miss Wylde. I’m also a lawyer. Your father and I have had occasion to meet professionally.”
The girl's eyes opened wide. “You are an avocat—a woman attorney? But is such a thing possible?” She flushed becomingly. “Je vous demande pardon, madame. I did not mean to offend.”
“Nor did you. I assure you that your reaction is mild compared to some I’ve received.” To my surprise, I found I liked Wylde's daughter very much. Despite her extraordinary beauty, she appeared remarkably sweet and unspoiled. I was, however, confused by her relationship with Martha Broughton. “You live in Paris,
Miss Wylde, yet you speak of Mrs. Broughton as if you knew her well.”
Fresh tears appeared in the girl's eyes, “Madam Broughton was my godmother. I have seen little of Tante Martha since Mama and I moved to France, but we often corresponded. I shall miss her very much. Poor Oncle Willard. It is going to be difficult for him.”
“Yes, I fear you’re right,” I murmured, especially if “Oncle Willard” suspected that he, and not his unfortunate wife, had been the target of the speeding carriage.
“Pardon, Miss Woolson,” Yvette Wylde was saying, “but I must find Papa. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”
My gaze followed the girl as she moved gracefully toward her father who, I realized with a start, had been watching us. His hostile gaze remained on me until Yvette tucked her hand through his arm. Only then did he turn and lead his daughter out of the church, leaving me with an unwelcome feeling of disquiet.
The next few days brought more frustration as Samuel, Celia and I tried to piece together a case against Benjamin Wylde. Adding to my annoyance, Frederick and Hortense were making more of a nuisance of themselves than usual as election day grew nearer. Somehow Frederick had overtaken both the Democratic and Workingmen's party candidates to take the lead in the senate race. Even more mind-boggling were those who predicted his eventual victory. To avoid the folderol, I sought refuge at the office, but even there I was too preoccupied by my client's dilemma to do any real work.
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