Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama)

by Rachel Cartwright

  “Please,” she said, touching Bret briefly on his forearm. “How rude of me. Here you are paying compliments to a stranger.” Rebecca smiled. “But I haven’t thanked you for the appreciation of you and your guests.” She opened the door completely. “Please, Mr. McGowan. Come in.”

  Bret removed his hat and stepped across the threshold into the building. Rebecca walked a few feet ahead of him as he followed her down the hall, watching the contours of her narrow back and slender waist against the shifting folds of her white summer dress.

  “This way, please,” she said, pointing down the hall. Bret followed the captivating young woman down the long marble hallway past bronze busts of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle and other notable philosophers from history.

  Her raised arm and the slight hollow between her shoulder blades recalled the supple curves of a marble statue Bret had seen in Venice; an eternal image of feminine elegance touched by the hand of only one man, protected forever in stone.

  In the hall’s walnut-paneled drawing room, Bret sat on an embroidered winged chair across a table from Rebecca, enthralled by what he imagined to be the growing sensuous glint of her gemstone-green eyes.

  He sipped strong, black coffee and conversed with her, eager to know all that he could about this fascinating woman, without appearing too ardent in his intentions.

  “I’m intrigued by what you’ve said, Miss Armstrong, and to be honest, somewhat bewildered. The work of your organization seems so . . . so imposing to me. Perhaps that’s why I feel intimidated by it. The only laws of science that I understand are those which make my automobile move and which, hopefully, will bring oil up out of rock.”

  Rebecca raised her chin. “I like your honesty, Mr. McGowan. Most men I’ve met through the Society are embarrassed to admit their confusion.”

  Bret leaned forward. “Then I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.”

  She took a sip from her cup. “How so, Mr. McGowan?”

  “That I’m not like most men you’ve met.”

  Rebecca blushed again. “A man’s character is everything. Most go to great lengths to conceal what they fear, while others,” she smiled, “are powerless to mask their true feelings.”

  Bret stared at her for a few moments. He was conscious only of her nearness, a growing intimate sense of her that seemed to enclose around him, warming his heart in this strange, remote place. “Please. I would prefer if you called me ‘Bret.’”

  She placed her cup down. “I would prefer that too, Bret, and I would like very much if you called me ‘Rebecca.’”

  Bret inhaled deeply and moistened his lips. A devilish caprice lit up his thoughts as he imagined Rebecca raising her slim arms to undo her hair. He fancied her dress sliding down over her smooth breasts to her slender waist. Finally, the whiteness of her feet as she walked across the floor into his bed.

  “Rebecca.” He smiled. “For such an enchanting woman you seem to carry a tremendous sense of responsibility for the future . . . for things that most people would rather leave to fate.”

  Rebecca touched a loose tendril of red hair over her ear. “In my heart, I believe I have a choice, Bret, to live the life I desire.” She lowered her gaze for a moment. “People always blame fate when they’ve made foolish choices.” She looked at him again. “Instead of looking at themselves in the mirror.”

  As she spoke about her life, Bret was again moved by her demure beauty. He placed his china cup down onto the saucer and sat with his hands relaxing over the armrests and looking only at her.

  Where Gabrielle was so patent in her appeal, Rebecca was an alluring mystery. He heard every word she said but he only answered in short, polite phrases, preferring instead to indulge the extraordinary pleasure of letting his eyes dwell on the gorgeous oval of her face. He was excited too by her rich, red hair, and slender, seductive neck above the gentle upturn of her breasts.

  “Bret?” She frowned for a moment. “Is something the matter?”

  “No . . . no, sorry.” He sat up straight. “I was caught up in what you were saying.” He glanced away from her for a few moments. “What a terrible tragedy that must have been for you to lose both parents from influenza.”

  Bret looked back at her. “A person thinks their own family misfortune is the worst thing that could happen, but when they hear things like this . . .” He shook his head. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your past.”

  Rebecca dabbed a tear on her left cheek with her napkin. “No, it’s all right.” A wisp of a smile drifted across her lips. “I’ve been working late the last few nights for my uncle, that’s why I had to leave your party so quickly.” She folded the napkin into a perfect triangle and placed it back on the table. “I’m more tired than I thought. You’ve done nothing to apologize for.”

  Bret picked up his coffee cup again. “You’ll have to forgive me for saying so, Rebecca, but your uncle sounds like a considerable taskmaster. Managing the affairs of an enterprise and home can consume all the time and energy of even the most resilient person.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and swallowed. “People give their whole lives to a profession or family and then wonder why there’s nothing left for themselves. You should enjoy what the Lord has given you because you never know when . . .” He lowered his eyes again for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to sound so maudlin on such a wonderful summer day.”

  The smile on Rebecca’s lips stayed longer this time. “You’re very understanding.” She folded her hands in the lap of her dress. “I only wish my uncle could see things the same. I know he would have enjoyed your party immensely.”

  Bret leaned forward. “I would very much like to speak with your uncle again. I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot the first time. Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  Rebecca looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry.” She raised her head again. “He’s attending to errands and business and I’ve much to do before he returns for the lecture.”

  Bret looked at her fingers fidgeting with the pleats of her dress. “Of course. Well, another day then,” he said as he rose.

  Rebecca stood abruptly, keeping her hands pressed together against the front of her dress. “My uncle spends so much time attending to the needs of our international program that he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet many people outside of the Society during the time we’ve settled in Galveston.”

  She turned a small globe of the world on the desk. “He returned from Germany only a few weeks ago after helping to establish headquarters in Berlin.” Rebecca paused and ran her finger around the globe’s equator. “It seems we get busier every year with new chapters opening in cities around the world.”

  Bret picked up his hat and tapped the felt brim. “Then let me be the first gentleman in town, Rebecca, to extend an open invitation to you and your uncle.” He stared into her unblinking eyes. “I should very much like to see you again.”

  Rebecca smiled briefly, the flush returning to her pale cheeks. She extended her hand. “I would look forward to that, Bret, thank you.”

  “Then . . . may I be so bold as to ask you if you would accompany me to St. Patrick’s church tomorrow?” Bret took her small, cool hand into the larger warmth of his and pressed it gently against his flesh. He gazed at her in silence for a few moments; the snow white of her skin now bathed in a delicate rosy blush.

  Rebecca didn’t want to be too hasty in her reply. She smiled and glanced down the hall again before turning to answer. “Yes, Bret. I would like that.” Rebecca withdrew her hand. She stepped toward the hallway and gestured toward the front door. “Tomorrow then. I look forward to attending the service . . . but I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough for today.”

  Bret smiled. “On days like this I have all the time in the world.” He followed Rebecca back through the shadows of the cool, moist hallway toward the brilliant heat of the sun streaming in through the fanlight over the front door.


  Wild inclinations swept through him in waves of heat and cold and with every step, familiar, overwhelming cravings forced their way in and fused in a single, undeniable desire.

  Rebecca paused on the street outside Havelock’s Dry Goods and gazed up at the red ribbons of twilight stretching out across the Saturday evening sky.

  Bret’s grand party and meeting him today seemed like dreams, something that only happened to young women in the exciting romance novels she kept hidden from her uncle.

  She picked up her stride, walking with light, quick steps, preferring the cover of shaded back streets to the brighter scrutiny of Galveston’s more lighted and public avenues for her private meditations.

  Did her uncle really understand what he was asking? Was he telling her the entire truth about Bret McGowan and his family? Even though her uncle declined the gentleman’s invitation he insisted at the last moment that she attend the ball under the conditions he had stipulated, insisting that he would explain everything to her later once he was certain of all the facts, whatever those were.

  The air between the buildings and the back streets was dank and sodden; smelling of dead fish rotting on shore. Not even the fragrance of the oleander flowers blooming on their evergreen shrubs could dispel it. Their perfumed aroma only masked the damp rot that hung in the air like invisible webs of decay.

  Still, there was something in the hush of these unlit places, the strange couplings of darkening shadow and ghostly light, which gave birth to nameless and untold visions—images alive with the lifeblood of her conflicting thoughts and feelings.

  As Rebecca emerged out of a back alley at the corner of 33rd and Mechanic Street, she caught sight of Timothy DeRocha pacing in front of the steps leading up to the Theogenesis Society Hall.

  Her uncle described the shorter man as someone so excessively contemptuous of his own background, at times he seemed he would do anything to remove it rather than improve upon it. Rebecca took a few steps back into the shadows but it was too late.

  “Miss Armstrong!” the man called from across the street. He waved to her. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

  Rebecca let out a slow, exasperated breath, and crossed the street. “Well, Mr. DeRocha,” she asked, feeling her pulse rising after shaking the man’s hot, damp hand. “How may I be of assistance to you? Did my uncle not answer all your questions to your satisfaction?”

  “No,” replied the short, heavyset man. “I mean . . . what I meant to ask you was—have you heard any word from your uncle concerning his visit to Miss Caldwell Friday afternoon?”

  Rebecca leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  The man removed his hat and gripped it with both hands. “Arley Caldwell’s daughter, Gabrielle. Your uncle promised to speak to her.” He crumpled the brim with his fingers. “About the importance of the Society’s work and how strongly her father believes in making . . . the right choices.”

  Rebecca glanced over at the locked doors of the Society hall. “Mr. DeRocha, I am somewhat weary from my work today. I wish to retire early, so any matter that you want to discuss with my uncle or myself will have to wait until Monday at the earliest. Now, if you’ll—”

  “Oh Lord! What did he say to her?” The man tugged on the sleeve of Rebecca’s coat like a beggar pleading for a scrap of food. “Why aren’t you telling me what happened? I’ve called the doctor’s number repeatedly but the telephone just keeps ringing.”

  He stood between Rebecca and the front door. “I understand that these things have to be approached delicately and I did as he instructed. When I visited Gabrielle this afternoon she didn’t mention it once.” Mr. DeRocha took a step toward her. “If Doctor Hellreich said something that seemed out of place—” He put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.

  Rebecca looked down at the man’s stubby, clenched fingers. “I cannot speak for my uncle in his place, but in his defense I can say this: he would never say or do anything that would jeopardize his relationship to the very people who stand to profit most from the Society’s work. Now, sir, unless you want me to scream . . .” she gripped the shorter man’s hand with her own. “I bid you good evening.”

  Rebecca pushed the man’s hand off her shoulder and darted toward the steps leading up to the front door. The door handle was already turning from the inside when she reached in her pocket to pull out the key.

  She rushed by Edward at the open door. “Rebecca, is something wrong? Did Mr. DeRocha threaten you?”

  Rebecca stopped and turned. “No . . . but how did you know?”

  “I was watching through my study window. I won’t allow anyone to speak to you like that.” He closed the door.

  Rebecca stood in the middle of marble foyer and smiled. How like Edward to want to protect her even when she could take care of herself. More of a silent protector than a friend and almost twenty years older than her, Edward had always been there, watching and waiting, like a loyal servant from years gone by. This was, of course, part of his duty as her uncle’s personal assistant, but he never hesitated to do her bidding whenever she asked. “Does my uncle wish to speak with me?”

  “He asks that you see him in his study in a few minutes.” Edward glanced back at the door. “Are you certain that you were not accosted by that man?”

  Edward’s attention was always fixed on her eyes, never wavering or glancing down at her bosom as most men, including Bret McGowan, were apt to do more than once during a conversation. “I’m preparing our meal and wondered if you’d like to eat with us. Or, if you like, I can bring something later to your room.”

  “Thank you, Edward. That’s very kind of you. I’ve been so busy lately it seems I haven’t sat down to a proper meal in days. I’m absolutely starving.” She smiled at him and brushed back her crisp, red hair. She touched her cheek, reassuring herself of the familiar composure on her face.

  “Then I’ll see you at dinner. I do my best to enjoy your uncle’s stories, but . . .” He coughed politely into his cuff. “He speaks much about your mother, his sister, Annabel, these days, and I think it better for all that we talk more of the future . . . and what it holds for all of us. Don’t you agree, Rebecca?”

  She laughed. “You’re right. There’s so much more we need to talk about. I apologize for being so distant lately.”

  “I look forward to that.” He stepped closed to her. Rebecca glanced away, aware of the flush rising under her skin. “Do you remember, when you were a little girl, how much we enjoyed singing together?”

  She covered her laughter with her hand. “You mean our wailing and screeching while you strummed on my uncle’s broken banjo? Lord, he kept that from the war.”

  Edward gazed out the window. “Three strings. The fourth broke, and I never fixed it. You said it sounded better.”

  “Why not buy a new one and practice? I would so much like to sing with you again.”

  He turned and smiled. “Yes, I would like that, after I finish the work your uncle has given me.”

  “You could visit the shops tomorrow and stroll along the boardwalk. This is a beautiful city, and you’ve seen so little of it.” Rebecca bit her lip, feeling suddenly very forward and risqué. “Edward Wallace, how do you expect to attract a lady’s fancy if you hardly ever stray outside these impenetrable brick walls?”

  Edward stepped away from her. “Paint and perfume . . . is that what you think I want?”

  “I’m not suggesting you visit a brothel. The Society attracts women of only the highest social standing. Isn’t that in keeping with my uncle’s philosophy . . . and yours?”

  “Your uncle says that in India female children are fed to the crocodiles.”

  Rebecca slapped his upper arm playfully. “What a terrible thing to say. I don’t believe such nonsense for a moment, and neither should you. My uncle likes to pull the wool over our eyes sometimes.”

  He coughed again and covered his mouth. “I apologize, but you know how some people can be. Always looking for something new to gawk at and whisper abou
t.

  “Then all the more reason to step out and let people see what a wonderful man you are.” Rebecca touched him gently on his cheek. “Only the finest woman will do for our Mr. Edward Wallace.” She giggled, turned on her heel and hurried toward the stairs.

  Rebecca watched Uncle Cade sit down on his chair behind the heavy oak desk in his private study. The rectangular window behind the desk admitted the rays of the moon that mingled faintly with the flame of the single kerosene lamp burning on the corner of the desk. Several texts and notebooks lay open on the desktop, evidence of his unflagging hard work and dedication to the Society’s mission.

  “You should use an electric lamp for your desk, uncle,” Rebecca suggested. “It would be easier to see.”

  Her uncle shook his head. “Natural flame is easier for my eyes. Your generation is so used to everything becoming electrified these days, but I find the light harsh and unnatural.”

  Rebecca remained standing, looking at the spines of the stacked books on the wall bookshelf to her left. There were many unfamiliar titles on topics she wished to know more about: zoology, philosophy, Eastern mysticism, economics, and evolution.

  “Uncle, there’s still so much I don’t understand.”

  “In time, my dear. You need to have a clear grasp of the world’s fundamentals before you reveal the details of a new God.”

  Rebecca ran her index finger down the spine of a thick volume entitled ‘Eugenics: Policy and Responsibility for a New Century.’ She skipped over to the next, ‘Comparative Phrenology.’

  “I’ve read where phrenology has been largely discredited. The size and shape of one’s skull—”

  Her uncle banged his fist on his, desk shocking her with its force. “In all my born days. You interrupted my work to debate the continuing relevance of one scientific method? There are others . . . more exacting, and still others waiting to be discovered. Questions will be answered down at the most fundamental cellular level of our being.”