Courting Susannah

by Linda Lael Miller

  “I want to court Susannah McKittrick,” Hollister said. He made no move to sit down, and Aubrey neither rose nor offered the visitor a chair. “I can’t do that, in good conscience, if I am prying into her past.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I think you heard me,” Hollister blustered. “I don’t care if she’s an ax murderer or a typhoid carrier. Susannah is a very special woman.”

  “Very true,” Aubrey agreed. “What do you think her opinion of you will be after she finds out that you’re a Pinkerton, hired expressly to investigate her?”

  Hollister wavered slightly, then got hold of himself. “No doubt she will be disturbed. I should think her reaction to the news that you were the one to hire me in the first place would be equally interesting.”

  Aubrey had already thought of that. He’d been up half the night; he’d already thought of most everything. “Susannah knows I’m a son-of-a-bitch. As for you, well, she thought you were a gentleman.”

  “Damnation,” Hollister muttered. Aubrey almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. The Pinkerton gathered himself together and braced up. “I’ll just have to go to her and make a clean breast of things,” he said. Then he flushed purple.

  Had they been discussing any other woman on earth, Aubrey would have laughed. As it was, he found himself grappling with a ridiculous urge to work violence on a man he considered a close associate, even a friend. At last, he did Hollister the courtesy of standing. “You’re fired,” he said evenly.

  “I quit,” Hollister replied.

  “I’ve asked Susannah to be my wife.”

  That news got through to Hollister as nothing else had. His eyes bulged a little, and his neck turned a shade of mingled lavender and pink. Aubrey wondered if he should summon a doctor.

  “And her response?” the detective asked quietly. For all the discoloration of his flesh, he held himself with manly dignity.

  “She hasn’t given one,” Aubrey said with a sigh he had not meant to release. He sat down again, suddenly weary. “But she’ll agree, Hollister, if only because that’s the only way she can stay with the child. Sit down. You look as if your jugular is about to rupture.”

  Hollister hesitated a few moments, then dragged over a chair and sat. Only then did he think of removing his bowler hat, which he held in both hands, turning it round and round by the narrow brim. “You are a son-ofa-bitch,” he said, “if you’d use that little baby to get the woman you want.”

  “I generally get what I want,” Aubrey answered, but he sounded rueful, even in his own ears. Oddly enough, he’d never been so serious about any enterprise as he was about taking Susannah to wife. “And I should tell you that the Ladies’ Christian Benevolence Society is on my side.”

  At last, Hollister laughed, though the look in his eyes held nothing of humor. He’d been done an injury—he truly cared for Susannah—and Aubrey was sorry that it had come to this. On the other hand, it wasn’t his fault that the other man had developed tender sentiments for a woman he was supposed to be investigating. Come to think of it, it was downright unprofessional.

  “If she hasn’t agreed,” the Pinkerton said at some length, “that means I still have a chance to win her. I do not intend to give up until the lady herself tells me there is no hope.”

  Aubrey spread his hands in acquiescence and tried to look unconcerned, but deep down he wasn’t at all certain that Susannah wouldn’t choose Hollister over him. She had to know that he wouldn’t really keep her from seeing little Victoria—didn’t she? That was a bluff, the only ace in his hand. He made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on it. “Fair enough,” he said.

  “Do you love her?” It was a personal question, even coming from a detective, and Aubrey bristled a little.

  “I think love is a fatuous concept. Susannah is well aware of my opinion in the matter.”

  Hollister stood again and reached across the desk. The two men shook hands, in the way of duelists about to turn back to back and walk their ten paces before firing at each other, and then the detective left the room.

  Aubrey was immediately on his feet. “Hawkins!” he yelled, fussing with his string tie.

  The young man burst into the room. He was a scrawny fellow, too prissy for the timber camps and too smart to go running off to the Alaskan Territory looking for gold. “Yes, sir?”

  “We’re having a party. Start planning it.”

  Hawkins swallowed visibly. “A-a party, sir?”

  “You know,” Aubrey replied impatiently, “one of those affairs where people dance and eat fancy food.”

  “Where would we hold this festivity, sir?”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir.’ At my house, of course. What do you think I built it for?”

  “I didn’t exactly know why you built it, s—Mr. Fairgrieve. Surely you don’t expect me to arrange—?”

  “Never mind,” Aubrey snapped. “Maisie will handle it. Just pay the bills when they come in, and make sure everybody who should get an invitation does. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes, s—er—yes.” Hawkins looked earnest and straightened his own tie. “Do I understand you to say that money is no object?”

  “That,” said Aubrey, his hand on the door knob, “is exactly what I’m saying.”

  Chapter 8

  She sat propped up on her bed, fat pillows plumped at her back, reading while baby Victoria slept nearby in the cradle. Snowflakes wafted past the high, narrow window, light as a fall of fairies’ wings, but Susannah, who loved extreme weather of any sort, spared them only the occasional glance. She was immersed in Ethan’s poetry, ostensibly composed in tribute to Julia, and while certain passages caused her to blush, she could not bring herself to put the book aside before the last page.

  What must it be like, to be loved so powerfully, so well?

  She sighed. It wasn’t so much that the verses were explicit in any unseemly way; they weren’t, and yet by their very intimacy, by their startling honesty, they conveyed a passion of truly mythical proportions. Were a man—especially one so winsome as Ethan Fairgrieve—to woo her with such chivalrous words and images, under other circumstances, of course, she might not be able to resist temptation. Had that been Julia’s dilemma? Honor an empty, foundering marriage, or give in to the raw, unrestrained adoration of a lover?

  But he’d loved a woman named Su Lin; he’d told her so himself. Furthermore, he’d said Su Lin was the only woman he’d ever loved.

  A tap at the door interrupted her musings. “Yes?” she asked, and wished she’d cleared her throat first, because the word came out sounding hoarse.

  Maisie put her head inside the room, beaming. “There’s gonna be a party,” she said, as breathless as if she were announcing the arrival of a prince bearing a glass slipper in just Susannah’s size. “Right here. Next Saturday night.”

  “Here?” Susannah asked.

  “Well, not in your room, ninny,” Maisie replied with good-natured scorn. “Downstairs, in that part of the house that’s been closed off since the missus passed on. I can spend whatever I like for food and gewgaws, too. Hawkins says I’ve got ’cart blank.’”

  Susannah suppressed a smile, set Ethan’s book aside, and stood, straightening her skirts. “I’ll be glad to help, of course.”

  Maisie peered down the corridor, then slipped stealthily into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “I’ll bet my garters that Mr. Fairgrieve means to give you an engagement ring that night. He’s had poor Hawkins runnin’ all day, sendin’ wires from here to Sunday breakfast. The man’s near tuckered out—like to meet himself comin’ or goin’.”

  Susannah had hoped that Aubrey would forget his decree regarding their marriage, but at the same time she was ridiculously pleased to know he hadn’t. “But I haven’t accepted Mr. Fairgrieve’s proposal,” she said.

  “You’d be a fool if you said no to an offer like that,” Maisie retorted. “It ain’t delicate to say, you bein’ a beautiful woman and all, but you’r
e gettin’ a little long in the tooth. There’ll be bids comin’ in right along, I reckon, but the fellers are bound to get uglier and poorer with every passin’ day.”

  Susannah erupted with soft laughter, careful not to awaken Victoria. “Maisie, you are no diplomat,” she said.

  “Be that as it may,” Maisie replied, “you know it’s true.” With that, she turned and left the room.

  For a few moments, Susannah just sat there, motionless, in a state akin to shock. She had no doubt that Maisie’s theories on the declining quality of suitors were sound ones, but the implications of being described as beautiful were harder to sort through. She went to the bureau and stood looking at herself in the wavy mirror above it.

  She was tall, for a woman, and her hair was a nice, pale wheat color. Her eyes were gray and quite large. She had a good, straight carriage. She frowned critically. But, no, she was decidedly not beautiful—her mouth was too wide and her cheekbones slightly too prominent. A faint spray of freckles spattered her nose, evidence of too many summers spent playing kickball in the dooryard of St. Mary’s.

  Julia—Julia—had been the beauty. And that very distinction had destroyed her, in the end.

  Susannah turned her back on the mirror and went to stand at the window, looking out, watching darkness gather, while the snowfall intensified. A little old man moved along the street, lighting the wicks of the tall lamps. Their glass doors creaked on metal hinges as he opened and closed them.

  She was still standing there, some minutes later, when Maisie sounded the dinner bell from the base of the kitchen stairs. Victoria stirred, cooed, and went back to sleep with a fluttering of lashes and a tiny sigh that pinched the back of Susannah’s heart.

  After making certain the baby was dry and covered, she washed her hands and face in the elegant bath chamber, tightened the pins holding her hair in a loose bun at the back of her head, and made her way to the first floor. She had discovered that she could hear Victoria from the kitchen if she left the door of her bedroom open.

  Maisie was bustling about, setting bowls and platters on the table, and Susannah immediately noticed that there were two places set. One was surely hers, but the other would belong to a visitor, since Aubrey generally insisted on taking the evening meal in the dining room.

  She tossed a questioning glance at Maisie, who was pummeling boiled potatoes with a metal masher. The older woman stepped around Jasper and his toy fire wagon without so much as looking down, setting the large crockery bowl on the table, where a platter of fried chicken and a dish of baked squash awaited.

  “Ethan’s here,” Maisie said. “Mr. Fairgrieve sent word that he’ll be workin’ late tonight.”

  Susannah felt an unfounded twinge of jealousy; was Aubrey really at the store, or had he already resumed his relationship with Delphinia Parker?

  “Don’t be lookin’ like that,” Maisie scolded, evidently as skilled at mind reading as she was at cooking and cleaning, as Jasper came over to the table and assessed the contents of the chicken platter. “It ain’t just the store, you know. Mr. Fairgrieve has interests all over the state. Why, he’s got stocks and bonds, and he’s even a partner in one of them gold mines up north.”

  Susannah handed the little boy a drumstick, after making sure it wasn’t too hot. Before she could think of a retort, Ethan strolled in, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his muscular forearms still glistening from a recent washing. His fair hair was neatly tied back, and he wore lightweight woolen trousers and polished boots.

  “Evening, Susannah,” he said.

  Maisie snatched up Jasper and the chicken leg, making a hasty assessment of the table and the state of the kitchen in general. “That’s a good day’s work as far as I’m concerned,” she declared. “Just leave them dishes, Susannah. I’ll do ’em up in the mornin’.”

  Within a few moments, Maisie had retired to her room, taking the reluctant Jasper along with her.

  Alone with Ethan, Susannah couldn’t help thinking of the hours she’d spent poring over his most private thoughts, and she felt like a sneak thief. At the same time, it wasn’t in her to pretend ignorance.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” she said obliquely, and retreated back up the stairs to her room. Victoria was still sleeping, so Susannah snatched up the handwritten volume of poetry and went again to the kitchen.

  Ethan had not taken a seat at the table, though the food was cooling off, but instead waited politely, arms folded, leaning back against the sink. When he saw the book, his eyes narrowed, and the warmth of his manner gave way instantly to a bone-biting chill.

  “Where did you get that?”

  She surrendered the book. “Aubrey gave it to me.”

  Ethan held the volume in both hands, as though to lose his grasp would be a tragedy, like dropping an infant or a precious piece of porcelain. “Aubrey?” he asked, apparently dumbstruck.

  Susannah had certainly not intended to cause more trouble between the two brothers, but the poetry belonged to Ethan—he’d conjured every word in the innermost regions of his heart, after all—and she would not keep it from him. Seeing his reaction to recovering the volume, she knew she had been right to return it, whatever the consequences. “Sit down,” she said gently. “Maisie worked very hard making supper, and, besides, you looked hungry until you caught sight of that book.”

  He drew back her chair, waited while she took it, then went around to sink into his own. He laid the tome beside him on the table, pondering it with a frown. “Where did Aubrey get this?”

  Susannah offered a silent prayer, not only in gratitude for the plentiful food set before her but that she might say the right things, the gentlest things, without betraying the truth. “Julia gave it to him.”

  Ethan gave up all pretense of eating and stared at Susannah as though she’d just announced that she was growing another index finger. “Julia?” he echoed.

  “He believes you wrote those poems for her.” She speared a piece of chicken, scooped out a serving of mashed potatoes, helped herself to squash—and touched none of it.

  Ethan closed his eyes and sat back in his chair for a long moment, keeping his own counsel. When he looked at Susannah again, he was much more composed. “That little—”

  Susannah cleared her throat quickly. Whatever Julia might have done, it wasn’t right or fair to speak ill of the dead.

  “It’s a lie,” Ethan said miserably.

  “I know,” Susannah said. “You were writing about Su Lin, weren’t you?”

  He gave a taut nod, frowned again. “You’ve read them?” A raspy sigh escaped him. “Of course you have. And so has Aubrey, if he’s convinced himself that they were composed for his wife. Damnation.”

  Susannah dared to reach across the table and touch his hand, though in a sisterly way. “They’re wonderful, Ethan,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

  He pushed his plate away, propped his elbows on the table’s edge, and rested his head in his hands. “Sweet God,” he breathed wearily. Almost brokenly. “How could she do that?”

  Susannah waited; she knew he didn’t expect an answer, and she wouldn’t have had one to give if he had.

  After a long time had passed, Ethan met Susannah’s steady gaze again. She wanted to look away, but she had pried into his private affairs, and she would not flinch from the responsibilities entailed in such an intrusion. “After Su Lin left for China, I started writing those verses,” he said. “It was all that kept me from losing my mind. I had to have a place to put all the things I wished I’d said to her.”

  Tears sprang to Susannah’s eyes, and she was inspired, once more, to touch Ethan, this time taking his hand in her own. She was a romantic at heart, and for all its tragedy, the story was a poignant one. “She must have known how you felt—”

  “Isn’t this cozy?” The intruding voice, sharp as a freshly ground blade, was Aubrey’s. He stood in the inner doorway, still wearing his great coat, snowflakes melting in his buttern
ut hair and on his broad shoulders. He wrenched off his leather gloves, one at a time, and stuffed them into his pocket. “Once wasn’t enough, Ethan?”

  Ethan shot to his feet, but not, Susannah could see, because he was afraid. No, he was coldly angry, perhaps angrier than Aubrey. His chair tipped over with a clatter, and upstairs Victoria began to wail.

  “You should both be ashamed,” Susannah cried, rising herself and snatching up her skirts. “You’ve frightened the baby!” With that, she turned her back on the pair of them and hurried up the stairs to collect and comfort Victoria. Below, in the kitchen, she heard Aubrey and Ethan speaking in more moderate tones, but the whole house seemed to reverberate with their combined fury. It was as though two thunderstorms were about to collide in the middle of an open sky.

  “You had no right!” Ethan snarled, tapping Aubrey in the chest with one end of the volume of love poems.

  “I had no right?” Aubrey countered in a furious rasp. Keeping his voice down was the second hardest challenge facing him at the moment; the first was keeping himself from knocking his younger brother on his ass. “Julia was my wife!”

  “Yes,” Ethan growled, “God help you.” He made for the doorway, and Aubrey stopped him by grasping his arm. He immediately wrenched free. “I will tell you this once, brother, and once only. Your precious Julia was a selfish, scheming little bitch with a mean streak wider than the best vein in the Klondike, and I wouldn’t have had her on a bet.” He waggled the slender book between his fingers as evidence. “Looks like she was a thief in the bargain.”

  Aubrey had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; the kind he got on those relatively rare occasions when he found out he’d been wrong about something. He hated being wrong. “Ethan—”

  His brother replied with an expletive better suited to a saloon than a decent household, but Aubrey didn’t blame him. He felt like shouting out the same oath and was prevented only by the sure and certain knowledge that Susannah would have his hide if he did. He watched in silence as Ethan walked out of the kitchen.