Again, Loretta took herself to task for thinking about the captain in that way. She reminded herself that it didn’t matter a bean whether or not the captain thought she was attractive or repugnant. The captain was a fiend, and Loretta hated him. “I absolutely love that hat, Marjorie. I’m so glad you’re wearing it today.”
Marjorie sighed. “You provide me with the best wardrobe any secretary ever had, Loretta. And you shouldna do it.”
“Fiddlesticks. I won’t have a dowdy secretary. It’s bad for my image.” She laughed, the absurdity of her remark having restored her humor.
Marjorie shook her head. That head looked wonderful now, topped by the brown felt hat with its turned-down brim, decorated with olive and brown felt cutouts. The two of them were going to appear absolutely modish and perfectly businesslike, not to mention innocent, when they visited the Museum of Natural History to observe the new exhibit of Moorish artifacts on display. All the artifacts had been recovered by Captain Malachai Quarles in his recent treasure-recovery mission. All the artifacts, that is to say, except those Mr. Tillinghurst had stolen.
Loretta knew it was Tillinghurst, mainly because she knew Tillinghurst. And she’d prove it. Somehow. She plunked herself down on her bed and toed a black leather shoe with a small buckle trim toward her. She leaned over with a grunt and slipped it on.
Perhaps she should lose a pound or two. Not for the sake of her appearance, but because she was finding it difficult to bend over. Loretta hated dieting.
However, she was quite fond of brisk exercise, and perhaps that might be put to good use and she wouldn’t have to cut down on her meals. She’d simply take more walks. That’s what she’d do. Instead of driving the Runabout to the soup kitchen and to her other charitable works, she would walk. That would melt the pounds away, she’d enjoy the exercise, and she would no longer grunt when she leaned over.
Or when she danced a vigorous waltz, although that crisis had been occasioned by her too-tight corset. She wore no whalebone today. To the devil with stays!
She grunted again when she reached for the other shoe and her vow to take more long walks solidified. For her health’s sake, of course. Not for the sake of any man, and especially not for that of Captain Malachai Quarles. She felt better for having decided to get more exercise and stood up smiling. “Ready?”
“Aye,” said Marjorie doubtfully. “Where did you say we were going today?”
“To the Museum of Natural History.” Loretta snatched up her black handbag and opened her bedroom door with a flourish. “Onward and upward!”
“Onward, at any rood,” muttered Marjorie as she walked out the door.
“Buck up, Marjorie.” Loretta, following her, skipped down the stairs of her imposing Russian Hill home with energy.
In spite of last night’s ball at her parents’ house, and even after going to sleep far past her usual bedtime, she felt very well this morning, perhaps because she’d slept late and missed her father’s telephone call. Marjorie had given her the message, and Loretta planned to ignore it. If her father disapproved of her behavior at his parties, he could dashed well stop insisting she attend the stupid things. Loretta felt much more at home with her radical friends than she did in her parents’ stuffy mansion on Nob Hill.
She waved a cheery good-bye to her housekeeper, Mrs. Brandeis, and her two housemaids, Molly and Li, took a fashionable woolen coat from the hall closet, threw it on, and exited her grand home. Standing on the porch, she took in a deep, fortifying breath of morning air—well, it was actually almost noonish air—and said to Marjorie, “I believe we shall walk to the museum.”
Marjorie, who had also put on her coat, cast a doubtful look at the gray, menacing sky and then at her pretty brown shoes. “Oh?”
“It’s not far,” Loretta said bracingly. “And the weather is quite nice for walking.”
“I think it’s going to rain.”
“Pooh. If it rains, I shall hail a cab.” And Loretta set off, clacking down the marble porch steps and striding briskly down her long drive to Lombard Street.
“Vurra well.” Marjorie followed her employer, not quite as briskly, but resigned to her fate.
Lombard Street itself was eminently walkable, being paved with bricks and with a sidewalk built like a staircase. The beautiful street twisted and turned and let the two ladies out on Leavenworth Street, where Loretta recommenced her striding.
Marjorie, puffing, said, “Please slow down a wee bit, Loretta. I’m’na race horse.”
Loretta slowed her steps, critically eyeing her secretary. “Are you wearing a corset?”
Shooting a quick, embarrassed glance around, Marjorie hissed, “Aye! Dinna talk about corsets on a public street, for sweet Jesus’ sake!”
“Fiddlesticks. I keep telling you that corsets were designed by vicious male criminals to keep women oppressed. I wish you wouldn’t wear them.”
“Aye, I know you do.” Marjorie sounded the tiniest bit resentful. “However, I, unlike you, amna comfortable appearing in public with next to nothing on!”
“Piffle. I have plenty of clothes on. Only my clothes don’t cut off my circulation and obstruct my breathing.”
“Aye, aye, I know all about that.” Marjorie frowned at Loretta, which was the most by way of overt rebellion she ever allowed herself. “However, even you mun admit that you looked vurra bonny last night, in a corset and stays.” Again, she glanced around, this time embarrassed by her own words. Fortunately for Marjorie, there was no one close enough to overhear the two women’s conversation.
“And I also almost dropped dead from lack of oxygen after dancing one little waltz,” Loretta said bitterly.
The truth was that Loretta had looked almost beautiful the prior evening, and the truth was also that she had been coerced into wearing her corset and stays. She’d also nearly passed out after that waltz, although the humiliation of that event didn’t quite make up for how wonderful she’d felt, knowing she looked her very best and that gentlemen had paid her some attention.
The combined effects of the last evening’s ball rendered Loretta unusually confused this morning, too. While she hated having given in to pressure from her mother and Marjorie on the corset-and-stays issue, she had also found the masculine attention she’d garnered, in spite of her eyeglasses, most gratifying.
She chalked up her mixed feelings to years of forced capitulation to masculine domination and felt a trifle better as she marched along, taking very big, very unladylike strides. Once more realizing she’d lost her secretary, Loretta sighed and slowed down. “Sorry, Marjorie.”
“That’s quite all right,” Marjorie gasped.
Although Loretta wouldn’t say so, she felt rather wilted herself by the time the two ladies arrived at the Museum of Natural History. Their first stop, after checking their coats in the cloak room, was the ladies’ rest room on the first floor. She was distressed to see that even her ostrich plume drooped slightly.
“It’s the damp,” said Marjorie, patting the moisture from her own face with a handkerchief, as Loretta tried to fluff the feather up. “It will probably perk up as it dries out.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” Small comfort. Loretta had been looking forward to appearing her best for this exhibit. Not that she had any expectation of meeting anyone she cared about, of course, but still . . .
Curse it, she was hoping she’d bump into Malachai Quarles! Who was she trying to fool? Herself? Taking a leaf from the captain’s log, Loretta called herself an imbecile as she gave up on her feather. She granted Marjorie one of her brightest smiles. “All ready?”
“Aye.”
“Do your feet hurt?” Loretta’s did. That was another thing she wouldn’t confess aloud. However, she began to think they’d catch a cab home.
“A wee bit. Not badly.”
“Good.”
They each picked up a brochure about the Moorish exhibit at the front desk and meandered through the museum until they got to the room where the di
splay was set up. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing this ever since that poor man got knocked out in the soup kitchen,” Loretta told her secretary.
“Ah,” said Marjorie.
“Did I tell you that as he walked through the food line, he talked about the Moors?”
“Aye.”
“It was as if the Moors had invaded Spain during the last weekend or something.”
“Aye, so you said.”
“The way he spoke about the event sounded so current.”
“Mmm.”
Perceiving that she’d get no help from her secretary as far as conversation went, Loretta shut her mouth. She was unusually nervous today. She couldn’t account for her state of agitation except by acknowledging that she anticipated seeing Malachai Quarles at the exhibit. She hated herself for her emotional condition almost as much as she hated the captain.
Pride and self-respect came to her aid, and Loretta was sure she didn’t look perturbed, however upset her innards were. Because she wasn’t wearing a corset and could, she took a deep breath before entering the Moorish Hall.
Her breath left her in a whoosh when she first glimpsed the extent of the treasure Tillinghurst and Quarles had recovered. “Oh, my! Will you look at all this!”
“Och! Mon!” Marjorie stared about her, her mouth open. “It’s vurra bonny.”
“Isn’t it?” Loretta moved into the hall, her disquiet forgotten as her eyes scanned the room. She didn’t know about Marjorie, but her imagination was instantly stirred by the exotic display. She knew those rugs hadn’t been recovered from the sunken ship, since any rugs aboard the vessel must long since have disintegrated under tons of salty ocean water. However, the museum-display people had managed to secure examples of Moorish rugs from somewhere, and, as wall hangings, they served as a lush background to the splendid furniture, gold fittings, weaponry, armor, jewelry, art objects, and plate gleaming in front of their eyes.
“Where do you suppose they got that gorgeous silk inside the display case? The one with those wonderful cups?” Loretta’s voice had sunk to a whisper without her conscious effort.
“I have’na idea.” So had Marjorie’s. “It’s so . . . so . . . opulent.”
“Good word for it.” Loretta aimed toward the first display case on the left.
“I’ve never seen such craftsmanship,” admitted Marjorie. “It’s vurra different from the Chinese objects I’ve seen.”
“Yes, it is. Chinese art is more familiar to us here in San Francisco, too. Perhaps that’s why this all seems so exotic.”
“That,” admitted Marjorie, “and the fact that it’s a dunnamany years old.”
“Indeed, it says in the brochure that the vessel sank almost a thousand years ago. Oh, look at this, Marjorie!” Loretta had stopped in front of a glass display case in which resided several intricately crafted frogs that were obviously made of some kind of metal. “I wonder what they’re made of? Do you suppose they’re copper? Look at the verdigris.”
“They’re brass, coated with copper,” a rumbling purr came from behind them.
Loretta closed her eyes for only a second, before turning and frowning at Captain Quarles. “I might have known you’d sneak up on us,” she said by way of greeting. “You always do.”
Marjorie muttered, “Loretta!” under her breath.
“Nonsense,” said the captain, grinning like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. “Your nerves are only a trifle ragged, Miss Linden. It’s probably from having rotten eggs and tomatoes thrown at you as you orate on street corners and in parks.”
Loretta felt herself get hot. She knew he was only goading her in order to get a reaction, and she wouldn’t let him succeed. “Ha,” she said, and turned back to the display case. “How funny you are, Captain Quarles. What does that card say, Marjorie? I can’t quite see it from here.” She was wearing her eyeglasses, too, curse it.
“Um . . .” Marjorie, glancing uneasily from the captain to Loretta and then to the case, opted to ignore the tension fairly snapping in the air. “It says that this frog is a . . . Oh, dear.”
Loretta could have kicked herself. She could also have kicked Marjorie for having such delicate sensibilities. The cursed frog was probably a fertility symbol, and Marjorie was embarrassed to say the words out loud. “Move over, and let me take a look.” She tried to keep her tone of voice sweet, but it cost her. She wanted to deck Marjorie and then bash the captain over his arrogant head with the damned fertility symbol, if that’s what it was.
She scooted Marjorie out of the way and looked for herself. She was right. “It’s a fertility symbol,” she said, rather too loudly. But she was so annoyed, she couldn’t help it. To make up for it, she said more softly, “I understand many cultures use frogs as fertility symbols.”
“True, true,” said Malachai in a bland voice. “I should think rabbits would be more appropriate.”
A stifled squeak came from Marjorie, and she pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, mortified.
“Yes, well I doubt the Moors and rabbits were acquainted back then, Captain Quarles. You probably don’t know that rabbits were introduced to Europe not long ago.” Loretta spoke sweetly and hoped he’d choke on it.
“Actually, rabbits were discovered in Spain in about 1000 B.C., Miss Linden. I think you’re referring to rabbits in England.” Malachai’s voice rivaled that of Loretta in the sweetness department.
Curses! Foiled again! “I beg your pardon.”
His alarming eyebrows V’d over his eyes. “Please don’t. It doesn’t suit you.”
Puzzled, and knowing she was going to regret asking, she did it anyway. “Don’t do what?”
“Beg. It doesn’t suit you.”
She sniffed.
He went on, “Anyhow, I was speaking of my own culture and a possible fertility symbol, you see.”
“Ah,” said Loretta. “And exactly what culture is that, Captain Quarles? Merchant seamen? Treasure hunters? Overbearing ocean captains?” She could have bitten her tongue when the last suggestion slipped out. She’d planned on staying cool and serene during any future meetings with the aggravating Malachai Quarles.
“Tut, tut, Miss Linden. I’ll begin to think you don’t care for me if you keep calling me names.”
Marjorie grabbed Loretta’s arm. “Look, Loretta, there’s another lovely display over there. See? There are several suits of armor. I adore armor.” She tried to walk away and take Loretta with her, but Loretta dug in her heels and didn’t budge. “Yes, Marjorie. I’ll investigate the armor in a moment. I’m not finished inspecting the frogs yet.” She stared into the glass case, although her appreciation of the case’s contents was hampered somewhat by her exquisite awareness of the captain’s presence.
Letting go of Loretta’s arm, Marjorie said firmly, “Well, I shall visit the suits of armor.”
“Fine,” said Loretta. A vague feeling of peril engulfed her when her secretary abandoned her to Malachai’s tender mercies. It was absurd, she told herself. It was nonsense. She was in absolutely no danger whatsoever from Captain Malachai Quarles.
Unless, perhaps, she feared she might succumb to the lure of his intense sexuality.
A thrill shot through her, the likes of which Loretta had never experienced before, and an intriguing idea occurred to her. Could Captain Malachai Quarles be the man to whom she would surrender her virtue?
Instantly, Loretta objected to the way she’d phrased the question. It was melodramatic, old-fashioned, and sounded silly to Loretta’s modern ears. Surrender had to do with battlefields and wars. It had nothing to do with a free-spirited woman willingly having sexual congress with a gentleman. She meant a man. Loretta also objected to the concept of ladies and gentlemen as a class.
Also, and perhaps more importantly, virtue wasn’t at issue here. A lady’s virtue was a concept dreamed up by men in their desire always to keep women subservient and obedient to their whims and fancies. Men never worried about their cursed virtue. They had burdened women with the
concept of virtue in their dastardly scheme to keep women from achieving their rightful places in the world.
Well, Loretta was having none of that! If she wanted to ravish the captain, she’d cursed well ravish him!
A glance sideways and upwards made her passion cool moderately. He was a very large and intimidating man. The thought that she, a tiny woman, might ravish him was a trifle implausible. It was also as irritating as anything. She couldn’t understand why she should find him attractive, when he was such a devil.
Every time they were in each other’s company, he taunted her and crept up behind her back and startled her and so forth. She didn’t approve of that aspect of his personality, although she was willing to admit, for the sake of free love and her principles, that he was an attractive man. In actual fact, he was about the only man she’d come across in her adult life with whom she’d consider proving her principles, at least in the area of free love.
The notion of rolling around, naked, on a bed with Malachai Quarles, made Loretta’s blood heat up. Not to mention her cheeks.
“Are you interested in fertility symbols, Miss Linden?”
Was there a seductive edge to the captain’s voice? Or was her inflamed imagination imbuing his voice with innuendoes that weren’t really there? Loretta decided to proceed carefully. It would be totally demoralizing to give the captain the idea that she desired him before she knew his own feelings on the matter.
“I am interested in all aspects of different cultures, Captain Quarles. The Moors evidently used frogs as fertility symbols, which is interesting as an aspect of their culture.” Her voice was matter-of-fact and the sentiment it spoke was valid. That was good. Loretta was proud of herself.
“I see.”
Loretta waited for the punch line, but it didn’t come. Again, she sneaked a peek at him, but Malachai had turned his head and his attention was focused on another object. When Loretta turned her head slightly to see what had captured his interest, she saw Marjorie, standing as if she’d been turned into a pillar of some hard substance, staring with fixed intensity at the suits of armor on the other side of the room.
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