by Susan Wiggs
But Blue had already drifted miles away, although he still felt her hand on his arm, heard her voice in his ear. He couldn’t manage to shake loose of the things his father had said to him that day at the Rescue League. It had been an extraordinary and unwelcome conversation. What was it about Isabel that made Hunter Calhoun feel compelled to advise his son on matters of the heart? Why her, of all the infernal women?
“Shall we dance?” he suggested, suddenly eager to do something with the restless energy surging through him.
Clarice all but dropped her jaw on the floor. “You don’t dance.”
He forced a grin. “Then maybe it’s time I started.”
He wasn’t sure what he was doing. Why dance with her at all? Because, he told himself, she was a familiar, substantial woman who would anchor him firmly to reality. And reality for him was work that never ended, a son who was a stranger, a life that was the same, year after year.
As they danced a waltz together, he saw Lucas at the end of the ballroom, working the gaming table for a group of overdressed women.
“Your son looks frightfully bored,” said Clarice.
“I agree.” But Blue refused to feel guilty for imposing the sentence on Lucas.
“He’ll be leaving for university in the fall, will he not? That’s good. Then you’ll be free to have a life of your own.” She gazed up at him with frank expectancy.
“My life has always been my own,” he replied, deliberately misunderstanding her.
After a turn around the dance floor, he escaped from Clarice. Standing in the white glare of an electrical wall sconce, he noticed that Isabel had switched partners. She did so for dance after dance, each time the music changed. The men she danced with were among the wealthiest and best known patrons in the city—Mr. Ghirardelli’s dashing son, and Mr. Langley, whose fortune was in vineyards, and Simon Haight, who danced like a master.
Good for her, thought Blue. Maybe she actually would find herself a millionaire. The sooner, the better. Yet deep down, he knew she wouldn’t marry for money, no matter how she joked about it. He caught himself thinking about the way he’d felt when he discovered Isabel was gone. She’d left a hole in his life. Then he thought about why he went after her that night and remembered the kiss they’d shared later. The memory sent him straight for the bar.
Eliza found him knocking back a glass of whiskey. He recognized the firm set of his stepmother’s chin and the determination in her eyes.
“Not you, too,” he muttered, bending to place an affectionate kiss on her cheek.
“So distrustful,” she said, setting down a plate of boiled prawns. “I simply came over to let you know we’ve officially doubled the amount of donations since last year.”
“You’re remarkable,” he said. A long-held tension inside him uncoiled; no longer did he have to wonder where he would come up with the money to pay for the latest shipment of imported medicines.
“I didn’t do it alone,” Eliza said. “Belinda was in charge this year. You owe a debt of thanks to your sister for expanding the guest list. And to Isabel, of course.”
“Why her? She’s done nothing but dance with every grossly wealthy man in the room, batting her eyelashes and then moving on to the next victim.”
Eliza laughed. “Heavens, what do you think she’s been doing all evening?”
Dancing with everyone but me, he thought.
“Do you think she’s entertaining herself, waltzing around the room with seventy-year-old lechers?”
He spied Isabel on the dance floor just as she tipped back her head and laughed in delight at her spellbound, gray-bearded partner. “Apparently so.”
“Don’t be a clod, Blue. She’s soliciting donations in larger amounts than we’d ever dreamed. She has persuaded each of her dance partners to increase his pledge.”
He nearly choked with surprise. This was the last thing he’d expected—Isabel Fish-Wooten working on behalf of the poor. He felt a twinge of shame for thinking the worst of her. “I’ll be certain to thank her.”
“Don’t look so flabbergasted,” Eliza chided him.
“Everything she does surprises me,” he admitted.
“You say that as though it’s a problem.” Eliza handed him a peeled prawn, which he ate while watching Isabel waltz with the chairman of the Wells Fargo Company.
“I don’t like surprises.” He sounded more gruff than he’d intended. “Look, Eliza. I appreciate your concern. I always have. But after so many years, I don’t understand why you’ve suddenly taken it into your head to embark on a campaign to marry me off.”
“Well, up until now, you hadn’t met the right person. Isabel has changed all that. Life is filled with many loves, Blue. Those who claim to love but once are being willfully blind.”
“As I explained to my father, she’s entirely inappropriate.”
“Nonsense. When did you turn into such a snob, Blue?”
“It’s not a question of being snobbish. We don’t suit. It’s as simple as that. She’s completely impossible. Lord only knows if she actually is who she says she is. She hides more than she surrenders.”
Eliza offered him another prawn. “She’s in love with you.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “That’s preposterous.”
“Let me tell you something, Theodore Bluett Calhoun.”
“Don’t you have guests to attend to?”
“This is more important. I’ve never said this to you before but it’s time someone explained certain fundamental facts. And the fact is, you and Sancha were an easy match. Perhaps too easy.”
He bit the prawn in half. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“You grew up side-by-side at neighboring ranches by the sea. Both families were friends. The Montgomerys adored you. Sancha was stunningly beautiful, and she wanted nothing more out of life than to love you and to be your wife.”
Eliza’s statement brought back memories so sweet he nearly winced from the sharpness. “Yet according to you, it was a mistake,” he observed.
“I never said that. Never think I don’t honor the years you had with Sancha. I simply said it was easy. She was easy to love. She was gentle and uncomplicated and had no ambitions beyond pleasing you. Loving her came as easily to you as breathing. Your first marriage was a blessing, Blue. Truly it was a gift. But you never learned how to fight for love. And that has kept you frozen, unable to move on. In a curious way, it left you crippled.”
He grabbed another prawn and ripped its head off. “Crippled.”
“I don’t mean to be unflattering, but you came away from that marriage with a distorted sense of what love is. Your time with Sancha gave you the impression that it is, and always should be, an easy prospect.”
“Of course it’s easy, once you find the right person.”
“That’s not so. Look at your father and me.” She offered a slightly mysterious smile. “You probably don’t recall how different we were when we first met, how desperately we fought to keep from falling in love.”
He didn’t recall a struggle. But then, he’d been a lad with troubles of his own and had taken little interest in his father’s life.
“He was the son of the most important plantation owner in the county. I was an orphan living on a barrier island. We barely spoke the same language. Love wasn’t easy for us. It was—to use your word—impossible. But when we finally found a way to be together, our bond was that much more powerful for having been tested.”
She took the prawn from him. “That’s quite enough.”
“I do appreciate your concern, but I don’t see the point of loving someone as inconstant and unpredictable as Isabel,” he said. “She’s determined to leave.”
“Then go with her.”
“You realize you’re the only person in the known world who is allowed to talk to me like this.”
She touched his hand. “Dear Blue. You’ve never intentionally hurt a single creature in your life. But seeing you like this, so lost and lonely, for s
o long, hurts everyone who loves you. And now something wonderful has happened. A person has walked into your life who could change everything. But she’s not going to make it easy. You might have to fight for her, Blue. And the hardest fight of all is going to be with yourself.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then stepped back. “Heavens, look at me. I’ve made myself cry.”
He handed her his handkerchief. “I can’t make any promises. But in the matter of Isabel…I’ll think about what you said.”
“I have a better idea. Don’t think. Just follow your heart.”
Even if that led to perdition? he wondered. He didn’t quite feel like himself as he crossed the crowded dance floor. A piece had just ended, and people were milling about in search of partners for the next number. He encountered Clarice, who regarded him curiously. “Have you lost something, Theodore?”
My common sense, he thought, sending her a cordial smile. “I’m fine, thank you,” he said, giving her a gentle shove in the direction of the gentleman partnering her. Then he moved on.
Isabel was like some exotic flower blooming in a formal garden. Slender and supple, she moved like a blossom in a breeze as she conversed with a dignified couple Blue didn’t recognize. With her shining eyes and lovely smile, she drew in her listeners as she told one of her improbable stories. She spun tales out of thin air and people believed the things she said.
That was part of her mystery, he thought. Part of her allure.
“Miss Fish-Wooten,” he said, bowing. “May I have this dance?”
She stared at him in astonishment. “No. I’ve already promised it to Mr. Florian. He’s right here on my dance card.”
“To hell with the dance card.” The orchestra played the opening strains of a waltz. Blue felt hot. His pulse was accelerated, his head light. From the corner of his eye, he saw Anthony Florian, the portly owner of a prosperous bottling company, approaching them.
“She’s taken,” he said in a low voice.
“By me,” Florian said, trying to shoulder past Blue.
“I don’t think so.”
Florian must have recognized the threat in his voice and stance. He stepped back, palms out. “I’m not looking to quarrel with anyone tonight.”
“Then you’ll excuse yourself now.”
As Florian walked away, Blue turned to Isabel.
“You just did yourself out of a five-hundred-dollar donation,” she said.
“I don’t care.”
“Such an impressive display of male aggression,” she said, her eyes laughing at him. “Tell me, is that only the beginning of the evening’s entertainment?” She was heaven in his arms, sturdy and soft all at once.
“Would you rather be dancing with him?”
“Truthfully, no. But I’m curious. You claim you never dance. I practically had to force you when we were giving lessons to Lucas. What changed your mind?”
“I wanted to hold you again,” he said simply, and nearly laughed at her astonished expression.
Twenty-Seven
Sarah Jean Swansea had the world’s sweatiest hands. Or so it seemed to Lucas as he partnered her in a dance he privately termed “the waltz that never ends.” She also had a fantastically big bosom, which had attracted his attention in the first place. Unfortunately, she kept her best feature well-armored in ruffles and lace, and probably a lot of fancy underpinnings of steel and whalebone. When they were younger, he and Frank used to sneak into his mother’s dressing room and study the mysterious trappings of female undergarments, which were almost medieval in construction. At any rate, holding Sarah Jean during the waltz was not nearly as interesting as he’d hoped it might be.
It was only slightly more interesting than working the gaming tables with old ladies who wore too much perfume. He’d escaped after an hour of that, but he hadn’t been quick enough to elude Sarah Jean.
“Gladys Portman said you’ve been working at St. Mary’s this summer.” Sarah Jean seemed determined to make conversation. She resembled a handmade doll, with plump cheeks and pink lips, curly yellow hair and round eyes the color of Delft china.
“Oh. Um, yes, that’s true.”
“I think that’s ever so admirable.” She smiled at him, and her bosom pushed a little closer for a moment.
“Don’t admire me for it,” Lucas blurted out. “I was caught stealing communion wine and sentenced to labor for Father Jock.”
“Goodness.” She blinked as though she had something stuck in her eye. “Well, then, I can admire you for accepting the penance. Not every man is big enough to do that.”
Not only were her hands clammy, Lucas realized, they were cold.
This was a bad idea, he thought, stretching his lips into a smile. Attending his grandparents’ charity ball had seemed a grown-up, sophisticated thing to do, but the actual event was a disappointment.
He scanned the ballroom for his friends, Andrew and Frank. Andrew was sampling the rum punch again and swaying a little on his feet. Frank was dancing with Lizzie Mae Watkins, who was even blonder and plumper than Sarah Jean. They caught each other’s eye, and Frank grinned, clearly happier with the situation than Lucas was.
“Who is that woman dancing with your father?” Sarah Jean asked him.
Still unused to the novelty of seeing his father dancing, Lucas craned his neck around to see. He felt a funny lurch in his gut when he saw them together, his father and Miss Isabel. It was like opening a door in a familiar house and seeing a whole new room he didn’t know existed.
His father—driven, difficult, impossible to please…beloved. Lucas was always confused when it came to his father. When he was younger, he’d seen it as his mission to keep Father happy. Somewhere along the way, he realized he had no power to do so. That was when he had stopped trying.
“Her name is Miss Isabel Fish-Wooten,” he said to Sarah Jean. “She’s from England.”
“She is quite dashing. And your father’s so taken with her.”
“How do you know that?”
She giggled, and her bosoms shuddered against him. “It’s obvious, silly. He can’t take his eyes off her.”
Sarah Jean was right. He had never seen his father look like this. He was almost…happy. And finally, with that observation, Lucas understood what the feeling in his gut was. Hope. He wanted this for his father. He wanted this for himself. He wanted the happiness back.
His father thought Lucas couldn’t remember the time before his mother had died, but Lucas could. He knew he saw it through the distorted filter of a small child’s vision, but the memories of his mother were vivid and real to him. He remembered the way they had been as a family. He remembered the sound of laughter and the comforting satisfaction of shared pleasures. He remembered the way his father used to gather both Lucas and his mother in his arms. He would roar like a bear and squeeze hard until Mama laughed and Lucas shrieked with delight. After Mama died, his father still hugged him sometimes, but he never roared and he never squeezed hard. Instead, he held his son carefully, as though Lucas were made of glass.
Now that Isabel had come into their lives, Lucas saw glimpses of happiness in his father, like flashes of light in a mirror or like shooting stars. If you blinked, you missed them.
But Sarah Jean’s remark meant that he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the change. Just for making that observation, Lucas liked her—a little.
“She’s rather young, isn’t she?” asked Sarah Jean.
Lucas’s esteem for her slipped. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, if she snags your father, she’ll have succeeded where half the women of San Francisco have failed.”
He suddenly didn’t want to be talking about his father. He didn’t want to be dancing with Sarah Jean Swansea, with her clammy hands and blue button eyes. Playing a game with himself, he decided to hold his breath until the end of the waltz, just to see if he could.
He fixed a bland smile on his face and stopped breathing. Sarah Jean kept talking, but he could only hear the pounding of blood
in his ears, like the sound of the waves over rocks on the beach at Cielito. Sarah Jean tipped back her head and laughed as though he’d just said something enormously clever.
But he said nothing, didn’t allow himself to breathe. The thought of his mother’s death had a familiar effect on him—a mixture of confusion and guilt and grief. He could not recall the exact moment of her death. What had he been doing? Where had he been? He’d asked about the incident many times, but Father would say only that in the confusion of the skirmish, no one could be certain who was where. Delta and Efrena always said the same thing, too. Yet he had such vivid images racing through his head. As if he were a small boy again, he could hear an angry whine followed by a wet slap. He remembered the smells of burning and blood and, incongruously, pickles. Screams grinding in his ears. And pressing on top of him, a blanket of softly tanned leather. He had been in the thick of battle. He was sure of it. But Father would never explain that day to him.
It was taking longer than he thought for the dance to end. He could feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers and behind his eyes, and the breath trapped in his lungs clamored to get out. Determinedly, and for no good reason other than sheer stubbornness, he continued to hold his breath.
His gaze wandered to the lower gallery, where servants, maids and footmen milled about, listening for their coded summonses from the bells mounted on the wall. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of raven hair, a yellow gown. June Li.
The breath exploded from him in a roar.
Sarah Jean Swansea gave a little shriek and jumped back, slamming into the gentleman behind her. Nearby dancers skittered away like water drops on a hot skillet.
“Are you all right?” Sarah Jean asked.
“Yes.” His gaze searched the crowd like a hunter through overgrown weeds. There. She’d moved to the gallery rail to watch the dancing. “Will you excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, he led her to the fringed and upholstered benches lining the wall and left her with Andrew. He hoped his haste to leave her was neither apparent nor insulting. But actually, he didn’t much care.