Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  “She’s worth the world to me, Stuart. I hope you see that.”

  “Believe it or not,” he said, with a smile that could be described as warm—if one did not look too carefully, “I think I do.”

  Georgia could barely wait to get out the door with Matthew the following afternoon. The air in the house felt thick with secrets, and it seemed like hours before he came to call. Adventure and intrigue were clearly ideas best left to the printed page, and not one’s own family. She’d avoided Stuart all day yesterday, and he had been looking at her oddly today. It added to her nerves when she handed him the fateful Bandit episode over lunch. Odder still, he accepted it without a single question—not reading it then, as he usually did, and as near as she could tell not reading it at all.

  Sensing that an “outing” was not really suited to their moods, Matthew suggested they simply take a walk. It was a fine afternoon, and he led her to the set of benches where he had first read the Bandit to her. The slanting gold sunlight brought a deep sapphire to his eyes. He sat down opposite her, looked at her, then stood up again.

  Nervous, she realized. He’s nervous. She’d never seen him nervous. Alarmed, yes. Agitated. But never nervous. She wondered if something had gone very wrong with his meeting with Stuart. “Matthew,” she began, at the exact same moment he said her name. They both blustered a bit, and then he gestured for her to continue.

  “What have you said to Stuart? He has been acting strangely all day, and he took my Bandit episode without so much as a peep. I’m not even sure he’s planning on reading it before he hands it to the typesetter. How did you do it?”

  “Yes, well,” said Matthew, with the tone of voice one uses when starting a long speech, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, only to remove them again, and sat down. “Georgia, do you remember the verse you read to me? The one from Corinthians?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “It speaks of having everything, but of it all coming to nothing without love.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I…I don’t find it any accident that that was the verse you shared with me. It’s had a great impact on me.” He turned to look at her. “You’ve had a great impact on me.”

  She wanted to reply that he’d changed her as well, but something told her to stay silent, to let him finish whatever he needed to say.

  “I have a great many things. I own more than I can ever use, I have more influence than I can ever hope to wield wisely, and—” the spark in his eyes traveled to ignite his wide smile “—I have gained faith and friends I would never have imagined. But I had not love until I met you. I understand now what those verses mean, because all the things I have, the things I am, pale in comparison to love.” He took her hand. “I have come to love you. Dearly. And yet I cannot tell you what our future will be. I find I can’t even predict how the week will end.”

  Had he said “our future”? Georgia suddenly realized what he was doing, why his nerves were so wound up, and she fought to pull in a breath.

  “Yesterday morning, I sat in my rooms and begged God to show me what to do. He did, Georgia. He gave me a plan so perfect and so impossible that I knew at once how to proceed. But here, now, is not about any plan. It is not about how useful this tactic is. It is about how I cannot see myself without you, no matter what the circumstances.”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, talking about tactics and such, but she could see an astounding intensity in his eyes.

  He took her hands. “Yesterday I asked Stuart for his blessing to marry you. I want to marry you, Georgia Waterhouse, and I don’t care how impossible it all sounds right now.” He gave a sheepish laugh, something so out of place in his usually confident demeanor. “I don’t even know how I’ll manage it yet. I don’t know any of the details—here or England or family or any of it.” His hands tightened around hers. “But I know it is what I want. More than anything. And I think…no, I believe…God has a life together planned for us. If you’ll have me.”

  Georgia understood his words. She knew what he was saying. Yet it felt as if someone had just hit her with a thousand sparks of light. “You’re…you’re asking me to marry you.”

  He pulled one hand away and raked it through his hair. “Well, I admit to being rather long-winded, but yes.” He took her hands again and stared into her eyes. Oh, what the blue-black depths of them did to her. “Georgia, I am asking you to marry me. Will you?”

  She had told herself over and over that it could not be. That it wasn’t really what she wanted, for it might mean leaving San Francisco. She’d given herself all manner of sensible reasons why their happiness would only be a fleeting thing. Nothing to grasp at. But here, now, she wanted to grab it with both hands and hold it close forever. She wanted to be with Matthew, and the future would have to be God’s problem to contend with as He chose. There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation to her answer. She realized that no matter how she’d deceived her more sensible self, she’d said yes to a future with him a long time ago.

  “You?” she said, knowing he’d already seen her acceptance in her eyes, “or the Black Bandit?”

  He grinned. “The whole lot of us.”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I will.”

  Forgetting they were in the middle of a park, he pulled her into a recklessly long kiss. “I’ve no ring yet,” he said, when they found their wits again. “You’ll have a fine one in time, but for now, I think perhaps I’ve found a suitable proxy.” Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a tiny white ribbon and tied it around her ring finger, finishing off with a kiss to her hand. “A fitting token for our most unusual courtship, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know how on earth we’ll manage it,” she agreed, touching the tiny bow, “but we’ve managed quite a lot of the impossible so far. Perhaps we stand a chance. Goodness, if Stuart agreed and ran the Bandit without question, God must be on our side.”

  “Yes, well, there’s something I have to tell you about that. But I needed to hear your yes first before I let you in on my agreement with your brother.”

  “Your agreement,” she repeated, feeling a bit unsteady, “with Stuart?”

  “I’ll admit at first I thought it only a tactic. But I think that is purely how God got my attention. I think it might have taken me months to work up the nerve otherwise.”

  “Matthew, what are you talking about?”

  “I told Stuart I would transfer Covington’s San Francisco holdings into your name—something I knew he’d find irresistible—as an engagement gift. On the condition that he run your future Bandit episodes without any editing whatsoever. He knows I know you’re George. And I told him I’d seen the present Bandit installment, so you’d best show it to me quickly so I can verify he’s kept his end of the deal.”

  “A deal? You struck a deal with Stuart? For me?” She eyed him.

  “I struck no deal for you, Georgia. I want to marry you. God just had to knock me over the head to realize it. But I’ll admit to playing my present desires to our best advantage. It works beautifully. Your Bandit episode will run in the Herald now, and our plan stands a greater chance of succeeding. But please, know it is only a happy consequence of what I truly want—which is for us to be together.”

  Georgia sighed. “I cannot see how it is at all possible. One of us should have to leave everything.”

  “I made it here. The railroad is growing every day. Each ship built is faster than the last. Perhaps the world is not as large as it once was. I believe we will find a way. Perhaps, Georgia, God is paving the way for a new life for you. Whether it is here or in England, I don’t know. We’ll have to deal with that as it comes. But if Stuart is brought down, can you not see that perhaps God is clearing the way for you to go to England? Or at least granting us that possibility?”

  She let out another sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “You and the reverend won me to faith with half a Bibl
e. You created a hero out of thin air. The Bandit has worked wonders and still no one knows who he is. I’ve been stabbed by an Irishman, stitched by a German, costumed by an Englishman, conspired with an Italian and loved by an American. I believe the small matter of a few continents and an ocean is well within our means.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The world seemed to grind to a halt until Thursday. Georgia nearly ran to breakfast Thursday morning, eager to see the Bandit episode printed in the Herald. It appeared exactly as she had written it. If Stuart suspected anything or was annoyed with her call for an impromptu celebration on the docks that night, he showed none of it. As a matter of fact, he was up and at the offices long before she even woke. She laid her hand over the newsprint and prayed. Send these words out in Your name, Father. Let Your will be done today. Raise up a throng to fill the docks, and let the police find what they need to find.

  Her heart constricted as she contemplated Stuart’s fate by this time tomorrow. Is there no way to save him from this, Lord? Turn him back from this mistake, I beg You. Can You not see Your way clear to a fate that is neither prison nor the highbinders? Can You not work a miracle? Her soul fell upon the words she’d so long resented from Stuart: he’s all I have in the world.

  Matthew thought it would be far more difficult to locate the boxes. As head of Covington Enterprises, he found it easy to gain access to the ship’s manifest when it docked. Within an hour, he’d managed to sort out a dozen or so likely crates from the legitimate cargo. Then, by discreetly watching the unloading, noting how each crate was handled and by whom, he had narrowed it down to six by the end of the day. He had his target. Matthew went home to get ready, the first part of his role done. Now it was up to Bauers to direct the crowd Georgia had summoned.

  As evening fell and he pulled on his boots, Matthew took a moment to run a finger across the glossy leather. How odd that he had to hide in a sea of Bandits tonight in order to drop that persona forever. He looked up at Thompson, who seemed to understand the irony of the moment. “I won’t be home tonight, Thompson. Not till daylight at best.”

  “I gather the Bandit is facing a great challenge this evening, sir?” There was no hint of teasing in the valet’s voice.

  Matthew thought of all the times throughout his life he’d kept things from Thompson, tried to outwit him. It struck him that today might be the time for a new tactic—to tell Thompson everything. To allow him to be the ally he had always quietly been. Without saying a word, Matthew got up, poured two cups of coffee from the service on the sideboard and added two sugars to one—that was how Thompson took his coffee. He offered it to him, a gesture of service to the man who had so faithfully served him.

  Thompson seemed to understand what Matthew was doing, and offered a rare, wide smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Matthew. Just Matthew will be fine.”

  “Thank you…Matthew.”

  He sat down opposite the valet, and they sipped their coffee in silence. “Covington Enterprises has been corrupted,” Matthew began. “Stuart Waterhouse is planning to smuggle opium into the country through our shipments, beginning tonight. Waterhouse is taking on the highbinders, powerful Chinese smugglers, and trying to undercut them. To his danger and Georgia’s.” He looked into Thompson’s face. “I care a great deal for Georgia Waterhouse.”

  The valet set down his cup. “I have been waiting a long time for you to find someone, Mr. Cov…Matthew. I believe you have chosen exceptionally well.”

  Matthew managed a lopsided grin. “Does one really choose such things?”

  “No,” replied Thompson, “I suppose they come upon us—even when we would have chosen otherwise.” He sighed, taking another sip of coffee. Matthew remembered that Thompson had been married once. His wife had died several years earlier. Had Matthew ever truly paid attention to his grief, or just assumed that the man’s service would simply endure, at it always had?

  “Waterhouse—and Covington Enterprises—will be exposed tonight. It will be an ugly evening for all of us, Stuart most of all. I doubt this division of the company will survive the month, either. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Your father will not be pleased,” Thompson agreed. “But Covington Enterprises has many holdings. The fall of one office will not bring down so vast an empire.”

  “So vast an empire,” Matthew echoed, the enormity of the evening pressing down upon him.

  “The Bandit is a clever man. I believe he can manage it.” Thompson caught his eye with a strangely confident look. “And she is worth it.”

  Matthew found himself sharing Thompson’s smile. “Yes, she most certainly is.”

  While she knew it was the least dangerous, Georgia felt as though she had the most difficult task of all: keeping Stuart occupied. Even sharing the happy news of her engagement to Matthew—which provided her a bevy of small details to “pretend” the need to discuss—it was as though she and Stuart were different people. No longer the lone siblings. At first, she thought it was because Matthew had entered that very private circle, but she recognized that deceit had been the true invader.

  What had come between them was not Matthew, but Stuart himself.

  “What fun you shall have with new British relatives!” she said too cheerfully. “I imagine several of Matthew’s family will share your love of operetta.”

  “They might at that,” said Stuart, also grasping at conversation. He checked his watch again.

  “Crisis at the presses tonight?” she inquired stiffly.

  “Isn’t there always?” he answered with another question—a sure sign he was on the defensive. Georgia pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery, praying for God’s sovereignty with each distracted stitch. It would be so long a night.

  Still, she had come to a significant realization today: this was about more than Stuart and his faults. Today—in fact for many weeks now—she was discovering how to be Georgia Waterhouse. Not merely “the other Waterhouse,” or “Stuart’s sister.” God was granting her the gift, however painful, of becoming her own person.

  Such a gift took courage of a whole other kind to receive. Not the courage of sword or whip or strength in the face of danger, but one of trust and faith and confidence. No matter what transpired tonight, none of those blessings would be taken away. Challenged, perhaps, but they were hers now, and could no longer be stolen from her. Not even by Stuart.

  When she looked up from her stitches, Stuart was staring at her. “Do you love him, Peach?” he asked in a tone that tightened her throat. “Really?” The old Stuart, the wild, misguided, big-hearted child returned in his eyes.

  Suddenly, for the first time ever, Georgia felt older than her brother. As though she had grown in a way he never had. Stuart had loved once—fallen madly in love—but it was always a possessive sort of craving with him. It seemed a shallow echo of what she felt for Matthew. A tinge of pity stole into the mixture of fear and anger she’d felt since she’d learned of his plans.

  “Yes,” she said. “Very much.” And there, right there, was faith working itself out in her life. Faith giving her the strength to love when it was not deserved. Faith enabling her to love the sinner, yet hate the sin. Faith to grasp her life apart from Stuart, to release him to his fate, and yet still love him. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “for extending your blessing. It means a great deal to me.”

  “We’re all we have in the world,” he said, nearly hiding the hint of sadness in his eyes.

  No, she thought, there’s where you’re wrong.

  Matthew waited outside Dexter Oakman’s house until the man left around ten o’clock. While Stuart would never sully his hands with the actual dirty work, Matthew had seen him apply enough pressure that he suspected Oakman would personally oversee the transfer. Sadly enough, the man who would come out the worst for all of this was Oakman. Stuart might have the finances and wit to recover one day, but Matthew doubted Oakman would ever regain any position whatsoever.

  He followed Oakman’
s carriage down toward the docks and Covington Enterprises. The closer they got to the shipyards, the noisier the streets became. Bauers, who had always been resourceful, must have outdone himself, for the area was packed with loud, raucous people, many dressed as the Bandit. Slipping into the crowd, Matthew became instantly invisible. Thompson, old man, I’ve finally mastered it, he thought to himself, tipping his black hat in the general direction of the Palace Hotel.

  Policemen were trying desperately to keep some semblance of order. If there was one thing this part of the city did well, it was raise a ruckus. Put the crowd in masks, add a generous amount of ale and inspiration, and it quickly turned into May Day chaos. In the three-block radius around Covington Enterprises, Matthew saw more policemen than he had witnessed during his entire visit.

  He flattened himself against a wall as Oakman met up with two men. Come on now, Dexter, come take your precious present home from the party. Matthew looked around to make sure there were plenty of policemen in view. Carefully, with a few nervous glances, Oakman motioned for three of the half-dozen crates Matthew had suspected to be loaded onto a wagon.

  What Oakman and his men did not know was that Matthew had loosened the bottom of each of those crates so that they would come loose when lifted. The string of curses let out when the first crate collapsed would have burned Georgia’s ears. A rainbow of Oriental silks spilled out onto the street. An expensive mistake, but it confirmed Matthew’s suspicion that the opium had been hidden inside something like fabric or fiber.

  The mishap caught the attention of a few of the policemen, who made snide remarks about the careless nature of dockworkers.

  The second crate caved in the instant it was lifted, signaling it contained more than just fabric. Sure enough, small paper parcels rolled out of their silk cocoons and sent Oakman into a panic. Now was the time.

  Matthew lit the fuse on a firecracker wound with a wad of cotton he had purchased earlier, and tossed it into the center of the pile. The sound, one of many firecrackers going off in the melee, brought little attention. The flare, however, sent the cotton up in flames, which ignited the silk—a slower fire that resisted stamping out. It in turn ignited the real target by the time the police gathered. The pile began to give out the thick, musty odor every San Francisco policeman knew as opium smoke.