A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  “But mine does,” said a tall, good-looking man, immaculately groomed and dressed. He stood in the doorway regarding Isabel with blatant curiosity and, if she was not mistaken, a small measure of flirtatiousness.

  She knew she was not mistaken when Dr. Calhoun scowled at him. “You’re accosting a wounded woman in a private chamber,” he pointed out.

  “It makes them so much easier to seduce that way,” said the stranger, striding toward the bed. He performed a perfect bow. “How do you do, Miss Fish-Wooten? I am Rory McKnight, an extremely clever lawyer and quite possibly the only friend of Blue Calhoun.”

  Blue. Blue Calhoun. Somehow, the nickname suited him. “His only friend?” she asked Mr. McKnight.

  “With a disposition like that, he’s lucky to have even me.”

  “Your presence in a lady’s chamber is offensive. What are you doing here?” asked Dr. Calhoun. His manner was long-suffering, and Isabel knew without asking that these two had sparred many times. They were an odd match, the solemn physician and the devil-may-care lawyer, yet she sensed their almost brotherly affinity for one another. Side by side, they made a striking pair, light and shadow, the sun and the moon.

  “I’ve come to see your lovely visitor. You invited me, remember?” He turned to Isabel and sent her a dazzling smile. “I’m guessing he didn’t explain that he gave me your firearms in order to investigate the crime.”

  Shock muted her, but only for a moment. “He did what?”

  “He took the entire gardening shed apart until he found the Colt’s. It was a favor to you,” McKnight said hastily. “You see, I am something of an expert in crime investigation.”

  A headache pulsed madly behind her eyes. “I’m ill, Mr. McKnight. You’ll have to explain all this to me.”

  “I’m not ill in the least,” said Dr. Calhoun, “but I’d like an explanation, too.”

  Holding the gun between thumb and forefinger, he said, “I used the French method of determining the origin of the bullet. You see, each weapon puts a particular mark on the bullets it fires, because its compression is unique.” McKnight reached into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a misshapen bullet. “You removed this from Miss Fish-Wooten, and I took it to an expert gun-smith. Judging by the caliber, lands and grooves, we determined the weapon of origin.”

  Isabel’s heart sped up—with hope or dread, she couldn’t be certain. It was a struggle to keep up with the conversation, but she sensed this debonair stranger was helping her case.

  “This is a sixty-seven caliber ball. It’s from a Confederate weapon imported from England during the War Between the States,” he explained to Isabel. Then he placed the ball in the palm of Dr. Calhoun’s hand. “And what you’ll really find interesting is that the bullet taken from Officer Brolin appears to be from the same gun that shot your houseguest.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Dr. Calhoun. “Did you compare the two?”

  “Indeed I did. I have friends in the police department who don’t mind sharing certain details of their investigation. So now it’s a matter of finding the gun and then finding its owner.”

  “And have the police done so?”

  “Not yet. The weapon might be difficult to find since it’s not in common use. It might belong to a veteran of the war or to a collector.”

  Isabel watched Dr. Calhoun’s face. She wished she knew him better, wished she knew whether she was seeing relief or rage.

  “So it’s good news,” McKnight said. “Miss Fish-Wooten is quite likely to be deemed innocent.”

  “But that means a murderer is still at large and still armed with a deadly weapon.”

  Hiding her fear, she sent Dr. Calhoun—Blue—a smug look. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  “You could have used the pistol in question and then discarded it,” he pointed out.

  “Your accusations get more far-fetched by the moment,” she snapped.

  He glared at her. “Then tell me something I can believe.”

  She glared back. “That’s an impossible task.”

  “Why, because you’re a habitual liar?”

  “Because you’re an untrusting, autocratic, humorless—”

  “I see you’re getting along swimmingly,” Rory McKnight interrupted, gathering up his things. “This might be a good time to make myself scarce.” He stepped outside. Dr. Calhoun followed him, but she could hear their conversation through the half-open door.

  “…detain her now, she’ll die from lack of medical care,” McKnight pointed out.

  Dr. Calhoun murmured something indistinct.

  “Turning her in now is a death sentence, Blue, and you know it,” the lawyer persisted.

  Dear God. Her savior was going to hand her over to the police. She looked wildly around the room for a way to escape.

  McKnight spoke up again. “…never know for certain. Even if she survives her injury…”

  Isabel caught her breath. For the first time, it occurred to her that she could die. Dying was yet another adventure she had not experienced, though she was certainly in no hurry for that one. She waited, praying Dr. Calhoun would agree with Mr. McKnight that she was too unwell to be turned over to the authorities.

  Dr. Calhoun came back into the room, scowling deeply. Bit by bit, she let out the breath she was holding. A floating sensation lifted her up, and vaguely she recognized the sensation as fear. She wanted to beg him as she had never begged anyone before, to exhort him to let her stay, to make her better. Yet the idea of pleading with him was such a foreign notion that she didn’t even know where to begin.

  “Dr. Calhoun—”

  “Miss Fish-Wooten—”

  They both spoke at once and both interrupted themselves. For a few seconds, they stared at one another. Then, a moment later, a Chinese woman in an oversized apron hurried into the room. The unexpected moment of intimacy passed.

  “Dr. Blue,” said the woman, “you must come. Mr. Peterson is waiting downstairs. The midwife says his wife needs a doctor bad. Needs a doctor quick.”

  Ten

  The moment the news was delivered, Isabel saw a distinct change take hold of Dr. Calhoun. The anger and suspicion he’d subjected her to vanished. It was as though a new mask dropped over his face. His eyes were sharp and clear, and instantly shifted focus. He reacted immediately, heading for the door, issuing instructions to unseen persons as he went. “I’ll need my surgical kit. Don’t bother with the rig. I’ll go with Peterson.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “See that Miss Fish-Wooten keeps to her bed at all times. And give her something to eat.”

  Then he was gone, leaving a curious vacuum of emptiness. Isabel had never known a man who had the ability to fill an entire house with the power of his energy. She stared at the place on her wrist where he had touched her to find the rhythm of her heart. A phantom warmth lingered there, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not stop thinking about him. Just what had she gotten herself into this time? This was nothing like her other adventures. Ordinarily she went sightseeing and dined in elegant hotels, and the people she met were no more important to her than the wines she tasted. Yet now she found herself in the home of a man who suddenly seemed very important to her indeed.

  His suspicion plagued her like a rash. He didn’t trust her. Even with a fine, upstanding citizen like Mr. McKnight offering all sorts of proof of her innocence, Calhoun seemed determined to believe the worst of her. She was used to skepticism, but in this case, she was telling the truth, and she was desperate for him to believe her.

  The woman spoke in Chinese to a younger woman who had come into the room, bearing a breakfast tray. It was a girl, actually. In a modest muslin smock, her eyes downcast, she appeared to be a younger, softer version of the elder.

  “I am Mrs. Li,” said the woman. “This is my daughter, June Li.” Apparently satisfied that she had done her duty, she rattled off a series of what sounded like marching orders in Chinese. Finally, she turned and left the room, motioning fo
r June to follow her.

  But like most young people Isabel had observed, the girl had a mind of her own. Once the mother was gone, June Li returned. She stepped soundlessly through the doorway, then edged close to the bed, more apprehensive than shy. Isabel was delighted to see that the girl was back. She hated to frighten people. She disliked intimidating anyone. As a child, she had been frightened and intimidated more than she cared to remember. She was loath to inflict that on anyone, even those who deserved it.

  “Do you like to be called June Li, or June, or Miss Li?” she asked in her most polite fashion.

  The girl dipped into a curtsy. “June is my American name. That’s the name I prefer.”

  “And you must call me Isabel.”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother’s true name is Li Mei, but that only confuses people.”

  She could see this line of questioning was fast becoming tedious to the poor girl. “June, I have a feeling your mother wouldn’t approve of you visiting me.”

  “My mother approves of very little,” she said ruefully, offering a conspiratorial smile.

  Excellent, thought Isabel. Here was a chance to learn more about her circumstances, and about the inscrutable man who had rescued her. “I see. In that case, I have a confession to make.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’ve suffered an unfortunate injury and it’s left me quite weak. I wish I could tell you all about my adventures but I’m afraid I would wear myself out. So I was wondering if you could tell me about yourself.”

  “Myself, ma’am?”

  The girl was so polite and reserved, Isabel knew it would take some work to draw her out. “That’s right. One of the chief pleasures of traveling the world is learning about other people. Where were you born? What do you dream about?”

  June’s eyes sparkled as she considered the question with obvious pleasure. Most people loved to talk about themselves; it was a fundamental fact of human behavior.

  “I was born right here in San Francisco,” she said. “In a house on a street called Tuck Wo Gai—that means Virtue and Harmony Street. It’s Washington Place in Chinatown.” Her bright, dark eyes turned somber as she lowered her voice. “My mother says the house is no longer there.”

  “And where do you live now?”

  “In a service alley flat behind the hill. It’s just in the next block. My mother cooks for Dr. Calhoun.”

  “And your father?”

  She stared steadily at Isabel. “I have no father.”

  Isabel stared back. “Then we have something in common.”

  For some reason, that released a flood. June was suddenly as talkative as a nesting magpie. She was sixteen years old and had lived in the neighborhood since she was seven. She knew how to cook shoo-fly pie and duck a l’orange. She could read, write and speak both Mandarin and English. Her passion and greatest talent was sewing—not ordinary things, but fine dresses and luxurious accessories for ladies. “Dr. Blue let me study drawing with the tutor he hired for Lucas,” she explained. “I’ve created dress designs all on my own.”

  “Why do you call him Dr. Blue?”

  The girl shrugged. “You must ask him.”

  “I shall, of course. I want to know everything about him.”

  June was only too happy to oblige. Over the next hour, Isabel learned that although the beloved “Dr. Blue” was regarded as a local hero, it was not a reputation he cultivated.

  In the San Francisco underworld, his name was spoken with reverence. To the sick and desperate of the waterfront alleys, he was simply Dr. Blue, who treated patients without judgment and often for no pay. He didn’t ask questions beyond those involved in his diagnosis and treatment. He was as likely to accept a fresh-caught salmon as cash for payment. Neighbor told neighbor, shopkeeper whispered to customer, and his fame spread. Sometimes in the night, when a young mother was distraught over her feverish baby, and nothing she did made a difference, a friend might tell her, “I know someone who can help.” Everyone seemed to know that the bell next to the surgery door could be turned at any hour of the day, and Dr. Blue would come. Surgical kit in hand, he headed out into the night on a swift horse and often didn’t return until dawn.

  By the end of the story, Isabel was seeing double again. Two Junes, two faces as perfect as newly-open flowers. She frowned. “You were there when Master Lucas found me, weren’t you?”

  The wavering twin Junes fused into a single image. “Oh, yes. I was with Lucas.” A world of youthful hope reverberated through the words.

  Isabel sent her a smile of delight. “So he’s your beau, then.”

  “No,” she whispered, casting her eyes down.

  “But you adore him. I can tell.”

  “Sometimes I dream of being sweethearts with Lucas, yes. But it can never be.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are prohibitions against it.”

  “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. Laws against loving?”

  “This was not my idea.”

  “My advice would be to ignore them and love him anyway.”

  She shook her head. “That would only cause hurt.”

  “Forcing yourself not to love him—now, that would hurt.” Isabel shut her eyes and pictured Dr. Calhoun’s son, with his wavy dark hair and intense brown eyes. “He’s a young god, June. I don’t see how you can resist. Or why you would bother. Don’t turn away from love. Heavens, it’s the only thing that makes sense in this world.” Isabel offered a vague, drifting smile as a wave of weakness rolled over her. She was ill-equipped to offer such advice, but suddenly she believed her own words with all her heart.

  “My mother says hard work and sacrifice are the only virtues that make sense for a girl like me.”

  Isabel winced, hearing echoes of St. Anselm’s workhouse in the girl’s words. “You understand, falling in love is an amazing gift. It doesn’t happen often.”

  “Has it happened to you?”

  “No. Never. I’ve never let it. And look at me, alone in the world, not a soul to care if I live or die.”

  “Dr. Blue cares. Lucas cares.”

  Something inside Isabel grew warm. The girl’s words were breath blowing new life into a dying ember. “Lucas told me his father is a widower. What was his wife’s name?”

  “Sancha Montgomery.” June whispered the name like a secret.

  “Sancha Montgomery.” Isabel repeated it. “It’s a lovely name, different and interesting.”

  “I never knew her. There are pictures of her in the front parlor. She was very beautiful.”

  “Of course she was.” What other kind of wife would the incomparable Dr. Calhoun have?

  “This was her room,” June said. “Did you know that?”

  Isabel thought she had heard wrong over the pulse pounding in her ears. “He’s put me in his dead wife’s room?”

  “Not…exactly. Lucas brought you here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “It’s the best room in the house. He was very worried about you, Miss Isabel.”

  She plucked at the white gown. “And this?”

  “I think it was probably hers.”

  Isabel shut her eyes. Colors whirled across her mind. “I am going to burn in hell.” She made herself smile and open her eyes again. “How did Mrs. Calhoun die?”

  “No one speaks of it. The family was stationed far away in a place where soldiers fight the Indians. Lucas was very small.”

  “So she was killed by Indians?”

  “Lucas says there was a battle and she died. Nurse Beasley says Dr. Blue has never been the same since it happened.”

  A tragic hero, Isabel thought. No wonder I’m half in love with him.

  She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until June flashed a grin, as bright and fleeting as a passing hummingbird. “All women are,” she confessed.

  “All women. You mean his patients.”

  “I mean everyone. Ever since he and Mr. McKnight founded the Rescue League—�
�

  “He started it?” Isabel was astonished.

  “He and Mr. McKnight, yes. Mr. McKnight was a rescued orphan who made good. He has known Dr. Blue since the war.”

  Isabel absorbed the information. The San Francisco Mission Rescue League was famous throughout the city, bringing hope to hopeless cases. Isabel made her way in the world on her own, and she always had. Yet now she wondered, if such an agency had existed when she was in desperate circumstances, would things have turned out differently for her?

  She forbade herself to speculate. It was futile, and she was in enough pain already. Yet she wondered why Dr. Calhoun seemed so reluctant to rescue her. Was she not desperate enough, not fragile enough for him?

  June’s butterfly hands fluttered over the breakfast tray as she gathered dishes and napkins.

  “Why do you suppose he started the agency?” Isabel repeated, in case the girl hadn’t heard.

  June stopped what she was doing and folded her hands in front of her. Eyes downcast, she said, “Nine years ago, my mother was his first…client.” Without looking up, she explained that her mother—bossy, dignified Mrs. Li—had been sold by her own uncle to a merchant in Shanghai. She had grown old and bitter before she reached the age of twenty.

  Because of her own past, Isabel heard all the things June Li was not saying. She understood the complete horror of such an existence, the loss of everything—freedom, pride, identity, innocence—that made a person human.

  “I have two brothers and two sisters,” June went on. “I never knew any of them. Some died. Some were sold. I was the youngest. That’s when my mother found Dr. Blue.”

  “That’s a remarkable story.”

  “Yes. All the women who work here were rescued by Dr. Blue.”

  “All the women who work here?”

  She nodded. “There’s Bernadette Riordan, the housekeeper, an Indian woman named Efrena who looks after the horses and rigs. And Delta Beasley, of course. But he didn’t rescue her.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. She rescued him, to hear her tell it.”