by Susan Wiggs
“You saved the life of an innocent baby. He would have died if his mother hadn’t come to you.”
“He’ll grow up without a mother,” Blue said. “What sort of life is that?”
“The one he’s been given, thanks to you. Blue, I see what you’re doing here and it’s admirable, but the burdens will crush you if you let them.”
The words lingered in Blue’s mind as he headed up the stairs to the gallery overlooking the main areas of the facility. He knew of no way to explain his sense of mission to his father, nor did he believe it possible to shrug off the burdens of it. But he let the subject go. “Our new quarters have a lying-in ward and separate offices for Rory and me. We’ve added classrooms, and there’s a small garden in the back.”
Hunter’s gaze traveled from the vaulted ceiling to the skylit side rooms that were virtual beehives of activity. A chorus of voices spoke English in a variety of accents, Chinese and Spanish and Norse. The Rescue League had been at this address for less than a year, but already the place was filled to the rafters. In the main office, the chief administrator interviewed a pair of bashful immigrant women in dark smocks and kerchiefs. “She’ll try to find them positions as domestic help,” Blue said. “Mrs. Swansea is a wizard at that.”
“No need to convince me,” said Hunter. “Over the years, she’s sent a dozen workers to the ranch.”
The entire Calhoun family supported Blue’s work. Eliza had founded the Benevolent Aid Society in order to raise funds for the league. “I’m grateful for that,” he told his father. It was not what he really wanted to say, but neither he nor Hunter even spoke directly of their bond. It was the Calhoun way, Blue supposed, to hold in the words, letting the actions speak instead. Lucas was cautious with his heart as well—that was becoming more and more apparent.
“Through those double doors is the clinic and surgery,” he said, pointing. “I’ve taken on a young medical student. She’s seeing patients on her own now.”
“She?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.
“Her name is Leah Mundy.”
“Another of your damsels in distress?” Hunter asked quietly.
Blue felt a twinge of defensiveness. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
There were some things, Blue reflected, about a father and son that would never change. “We employ anyone willing to work, even female medical students. There’s plenty to be done.”
Hunter nodded, clearly aware that Blue didn’t care for the topic at hand. “Your cause is good, son. I’ve always believed that.”
“Sometimes even Lucas helps, but his heart’s not in it. He’s not interested in my work here.”
Hunter set his hands at his waist and rocked back on his heels. “Are you surprised?”
“No. Lately he makes it his chief occupation to contradict me. In fact, I should forbid him to set foot in the building. Then he’d be here every day.” Blue caught himself thinking of the unexpected moment of connection he’d felt with Lucas during Miss Fish-Wooten’s impromptu dancing lesson. Startled to see his father dancing, Lucas had regarded him with, if not affection, then admiration and surprise, at least. Blue savored that moment. It seemed so simple, but he knew it would never have happened if Isabel hadn’t forced him into the awkward position of teaching the boys to dance.
“When you were his age, I did everything in my power to get you to stay at Cielito and carry on the family business,” Hunter reminded him.
Blue recalled the heated quarrels, chilly silences, seething resentment that had characterized his adolescent years. Yet somehow, he didn’t consider himself a contrary son. “That was different,” he said. “I had a clear call to duty.”
“All I saw was a young hothead who thought going to war was a way to cure boredom.”
Blue took in a quick breath, startled to feel an echo of the old fight between them. “It wasn’t boredom.”
“You were just fifteen, the same age Lucas is now.”
“I knew what I was doing. The war had been going on for four years. I’d seen veterans coming back, missing arms or legs. I knew families whose loved ones never did return. You knew them, too. So don’t tell me I didn’t know what I was in for.” He hadn’t, of course. What man who had not seen the face of battle could truly understand the meaning of war?
“You nearly quarreled me into an early grave,” said his father, “and in the end, you went anyway.” A distant look misted his eyes. “Hardest thing I ever had to do was take you to the train station that day.”
Blue regarded his father’s craggy face, his strong hands gripping the gallery rail. He’d had no idea that his departure had such an impact. The fact that Hunter had concealed his feelings spoke volumes about his strength and forbearance. Blue wondered if he could do the same when the time came for Lucas to go out into the world.
“It’s different between Lucas and me,” he said. “The boy’s a dreamer. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s nothing like I was at that age.”
“I know.” His father was smiling and not so distant now. “He’s just like I was.”
“What makes you say that?” He knew his father as a strong and focused man, devoted to his family, driven to succeed in building his dream—a horse ranch where he and Eliza could make a life of their own, far from the restrictive and insular society of Tidewater Virginia.
“I had a life before you were born. Granted, it was a haphazard, misspent life for the most part, and sometimes there was more drinking than dreaming, but it was my life nonetheless. After your mother passed, well, I only drank more and cared less. There was a wildness in me. I did some things I’m not proud of, I freely admit that.”
Blue could not reconcile the sober, successful man before him with the wild Virginia youth Hunter described. He had only the vaguest memories of the murky years of his early childhood. Sometimes, in the hour between dark and dawn, he saw subtle, fleeting images of his fragile mother; his father was often gone. Then his mother had died in a fire, and a silent shadow of grief had shrouded the plantation. Until Eliza came into their lives.
Hunter was watching him with a bemused expression. “I reckon about now you’re hoping I’ll make my point.”
“Actually, you already have.”
Hunter started walking toward the opposite end of the gallery. They spoke of other things as they toured the facility together. His father appreciated the well-laid-out rooms, the efficient workers, the sense that the people who came here deserved dignity. Some of the church rescue leagues provided outstanding aid for indigents, but the benefits came along with thunderous, fire-and-brimstone lectures and fear-driven conversions. Here, the only requirement was a desire for a better life.
Watching his father’s inspection, Blue could not deny a surge of pride. My first audience, he thought, eyeing the tall, vigorous man who had watched him grow from timid boy to bold youth to mature man. Hunter was the first to watch him, to care about what he did, to encourage him in his endeavors, to worry about him even when he didn’t want to be worried about. It was, Blue realized, what made a man a father.
He wondered if Lucas regarded him in that way. He wondered how a man could tell whether or not he was doing a good job with his son. Isabel told him repeatedly that Lucas was a wonderful boy, and she gave Blue credit for that. She was good for him in that way, at least.
They descended another stairwell at the far end of the gallery and passed the open door of a classroom. Inside stood a portly man with a walrus mustache, speaking with a group of women who sat on benches set in rows like church pews.
“This meat is putrid,” the man yelled.
“This meat is putrid,” the women yelled back.
“English lessons,” Blue said. “We hold class every morning, and—” A small streak burst in through the double doors leading to the courtyard, nearly barreling into Blue. He moved out of the way and the streak darted down the hall toward the washroom.
“Each woman comes with at least one chi
ld,” Blue said. “Usually more. We get our fair share of orphans as well, and end up sending them to Mount St. Joseph Infant Shelter. From time to time, I considered adopting, but…”
“But?”
“Why would I bring a child into a home with no mother?”
He realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he was a sitting duck.
Hunter leaped at the opportunity. “Then marry again.”
“Not interested.”
“You were a good husband to Sancha. You could—”
“Please. I get enough pressure from Eliza and my sisters.”
“I know. I’ve held my tongue for years, waiting for you to sort things out. But now you’ve got a prospect. We all think Isabel is charming.”
“Oh, she is charming, all right. But I’d hardly call her motherly. She travels the world alone, and I doubt she’d know the first thing to do with a child.”
“Really?” Hunter was watching through the double doors, which stood open to the courtyard. Under a spreading Pacific oak, an elderly nun sat cradling a baby and watching a group of children laughing and racing after a ball. They were all shapes and sizes and colors, unified by their singular pursuit across the dusty yard. And in their midst, playing and laughing as hard as any child, was Isabel Fish-Wooten.
Only a week or so had passed since she’d made her ill-fated foray down to the waterfront, but she appeared to have recovered nicely. She sparkled. There was no other word for it. There was a special, maybe magical energy in the way her face flushed and her small, compact body moved as she captured the ball from a nimble boy.
She was entirely at ease with the youngsters, charging toward a makeshift goal. Wispy dark curls escaped her hairpins, and laughter spilled from her lips. When she was a few steps from the goal, she seized the tiniest boy and handed off the ball to him. Triumphant, he barreled across the goal line. A cheer went up, and someone hoisted the child high. Isabel threw back her head and flung her arms around the children nearest her. She looked supremely, undeniably happy in the company of children.
Blue was thunderstruck. Here was a side to Isabel he hadn’t seen before. Getting to know her was like paddling unfamiliar waters and coming across an undiscovered country. Or more likely, coming around a bend and encountering a waterfall.
Still oblivious to being watched, she led her noisy crew over to the cistern for a drink of water.
“She seems fine with children to me,” Hunter murmured beside him.
“So does Sister Maria Jesus,” Blue said, indicating the nun with the mustache, rocking the baby. “But I don’t want her for a wife, either.”
Hunter’s gaze tracked Isabel as she dipped water for a talkative, breathless boy. “She’s not beautiful,” he said.
“No, she’s not,” Blue agreed readily, unable to take his eyes off her.
“But there’s something about her.”
Blue gritted his teeth. “She’s indecently young.”
“Maybe that’s what it is.”
“You’re a lecherous old thing,” Blue said. “I should warn Eliza.”
“Oh, she knows about my lechery,” Hunter assured him. “It’s one of her favorite things about me.”
Blue didn’t even want to think about that. “Look, I’m not planning to marry again. After ten years, I’m accustomed to living on my own. That’s the way it’s going to stay. And if I was going to marry, Isabel Fish-Wooten would be the last woman on my list.”
While he spoke, she had gathered the little ones around her in the shade of the tree beside the nun. Taking a length of string, she gave a demonstration of Jacob’s ladder. A girl tugged on her sleeve. “I wish you would come every day, Miss Isabel. I wish you would stay for ever.”
Isabel’s smile dipped at the corners. “I couldn’t do that. I can only stay until the season changes.”
Blue looked at his father. “I rest my case.”
Waving his hand in impatience, Hunter strode outside. “What do you mean by that?” he asked her.
At the sight of Blue and Hunter, the children scrambled to attention. Isabel remained seated, her skirts spread around her like the petals of a flower. Perhaps it was the angle of light, but the color in her cheeks seemed to deepen. “Well, I was actually addressing the children, but if you must know, I never stay in one place longer than a single season.” She beamed up at Blue, and her smile took hold of him. “Hello. Are you surprised to see me here?”
“You’ll slow down your recovery if you keep racing about, exerting yourself.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Is this the same Dr. Calhoun who declared me well and ordered me to leave? Perhaps I’ll relapse and stay another week. That should please your father.”
“Stay, stay,” said the children.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Hunter said. “I hope you know you’re expected to attend the charity ball.”
She aimed a look directly at Blue. “I’d be honored.”
“Take the baby, Isabel,” said Sister Maria Jesus, holding out the swaddled bundle. “I’ve got to bring this lot in for their lunch.”
“But I’ve never looked after such a tiny baby.” Panic flickered in her eyes as the infant was settled in her arms.
“Then you are in for a treat.” The nun brushed off her skirts and herded the children inside.
Isabel held the quiet, wakeful baby at arms’ length, as though the child were a stick of dynamite on the verge of exploding. She looked so discomfited that Blue took pity on her and stepped forward to help. But his father put his hand on his arm. “Wait,” he whispered.
The courtyard was quiet after the children left. Faint strains of the English lesson drifted through the open window, and a breeze shimmered in the leaves.
Isabel stared at the baby, who stared back. Finally, she drew the child into her lap. Her skirt formed a sling for the small body. The baby raised a tiny hand, flailing it until Isabel held out a finger. The little fist instantly closed around it. Isabel’s posture softened, and she inhaled deeply, the way people instinctively did, to catch an infant’s scent. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Oh, aren’t you a fine little lad.”
She seemed overcome as she settled the child in the crook of one arm, wrapped the other around him and held him next to her heart. When she looked up at Blue, her cheeks gleamed wet with tears.
He was astounded. He had seen her shot by a deadly bullet, yet it took an infant to make her weep.
She wiped her face with a corner of the baby’s shawl. “Forgive me,” she said in a soft, wondering voice. “It’s just that I’ve never held a baby before.”
Twenty-Five
The Calhoun women insisted that Isabel come to their suite at the Excelsior Hotel to get ready for the charity ball. Initially, she hadn’t planned to attend at all. She’d expected to be somewhere out in the blue Pacific, with San Francisco a misty memory behind her. But now she conceded that her stolen fortune was a lost cause, and she would have to make a new plan to repair her finances.
That was yet another nice thing about money. For someone with a bit of talent and huge amounts of determination, it was relatively easy to acquire.
She did regret the loss of her valise, though. It contained one irreplaceable item, carefully preserved in a leather folio, that had meaning only to her. It was the key to her true identity, and she kept it to remind her that the only way to escape that person was to keep moving. Now the last vestige of her past had vanished, and she had come to a place she wished she could belong.
June Li accompanied her to the hotel to help with the costume. She felt a pleasant surge of excitement as they entered the Excelsior. She looked forward to the chatter and gossip, the perfume and primping.
As she crossed the lobby of the city’s grandest hotel and passed beneath the massive skylight seven storeys up, she felt a keen sense of anticipation. This was where she thrived, this place of artifice, with arched halls and potted palms, cherubs painted on vaulted ceilings and bellboys scurryin
g around with luggage, flower deliveries or fussed-over small dogs on jeweled leashes. Over the years, making herself a part of this glittering, transient world had brought her no end of pleasure.
Now, as she and June rode a hydraulic elevator encased in gilded bars, she felt a sense of frustration that was new to her. This was not her world. It was her stage. She could no more be a part of it than an actor could be part of the fictional family in a burlesque review.
This subtle distinction had never bothered her before. She knew why it did now.
As she stood outside the door to the Calhoun suite, hearing the intimate murmurs and trills of laughter, she understood that she’d never truly belong anywhere. Because of the way she’d chosen to live her life, she would never be surrounded by people who knew her, who loved her, who cared what happened to her. In the past, she considered that to be a liberating asset, but lately she found herself assailed by foolish and futile yearnings.
Shaking off the mawkish notions as best she could, she decided that perhaps being shot had addled her wits. Then she squared her shoulders, stepped back and waited while the bell captain knocked and the door opened.
Beside Isabel, June took in a soft gasp of admiration. The spacious and beautiful suite of rooms was grand enough to be termed an apartment. Hand-painted wallpaper, soaring French windows draped in lush velvet and gleaming antique furnishings created a sense of luxury that surpassed even the Calhoun house.
“Good afternoon, Isabel, and welcome,” said Eliza. “To you, too, June. We’re so glad you’re here.” Taking Isabel’s hand, Eliza drew her into a bedroom that exploded with feminine finery. She picked her way through a clutter of petticoats, powder puffs, sashes and flounces enough for a dozen women. A maid was busy steaming the wrinkles out of silk, and another heated curling irons on a corner stove.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” said Belinda. “We were a little afraid you’d changed your mind.”
Isabel flushed, though she offered a self-deprecating smile. She wasn’t sure whether or not the Calhouns had been informed of her failed attempt to flee. She hoped they didn’t take it personally. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate being included. You’re terribly generous.”