Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

  “I’ll be on my way, then,” said Marcus. He shook Somerset’s hand and gave Isabel a little bow. “Reckon I’ll be seeing you, Mrs. Golightly.”

  Isabel said, “Yes,” uncertainly. “Thank you for coming, Marcus.”

  She and Somerset followed the little man to the front door, and Somerset opened it for him. They both watched him march jauntily off. Isabel presumed he was headed for the cable car line that would take him back to Nob Hill and the Fairfield Hotel. She started when Somerset shut the door, cutting off her view of Marcus’s back.

  “How the devil did he know that he’d find you here?” He took her arm and guided her back to the parlor.

  Isabel rather hoped he’d take her in his arms again and offer her the comfort of his large, warm body, but he didn’t. With a sigh, she sank back into the chair she’d begun to think of as hers. “He said Mr. Balderston telephoned several people. I suppose Loretta or Marjorie suggested he look for me here.”

  “Ah.”

  They gazed at each other for several seconds. Isabel didn’t know what to say, and she assumed Somerset was in the same condition.

  Finally it was Somerset who broke the deadlock. “This rather blows a hole in your hopes for that contest, doesn’t it?”

  She sighed gloomily. “Yes, it does. Not to mention my job.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know about that. Perhaps we can find someone to take over for Mr. Savedra. I understand that Miss Linden numbers several people with . . . ah . . . unusual occupations among her friends.”

  Sitting up straighter, Isabel cried, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of Loretta? She knows positively dozens of strange people!”

  Somerset’s mouth tilted into a small smile. Isabel caught her breath. She loved his smile. “I didn’t mean strange,” she said, backpedaling furiously. “I meant that she knows lots of actors and singers and people like that. She must know a dancer or two who needs a job. They all need jobs.”

  “Yes, Dr. Abernathy told me the same thing. Of course, that leaves the contest.”

  She sagged again. “Yes. It does.” Swallowing the lump that threatened to produce more tears, she went on, “I was so confident that we’d win it, too.”

  Oh, bother, she was going to cry. How embarrassing. But she’d pinned so many hopes on that bloody contest. She grabbed the small handbag she’d consigned to the table earlier in the evening and fumbled for a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Somerset. I’m being foolish.”

  “Not at all,” he said in a consoling voice. And why the devil didn’t he rush to take her into his arms and comfort her, was what Isabel wanted to know? “I know how much you were depending on that contest.”

  She sniffled and blew her nose. She tried to do so discreetly, but blowing one’s nose is never discreet. When she was through, she said, “You probably think I was stupid to believe so ardently that Jorge and I could win the contest, don’t you?”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “I observed most of your rehearsals, remember. I can’t imagine that another couple could honestly compete against you. I know how good the two of you were.”

  Were. Yes. That was the word, all right. Isabel sighed again. “That’s all over now, I guess. I’d so hoped I’d be able to open a dance academy, but my hopes have been dashed for good and all now.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She smiled at him sadly. “I won’t accept money from you, Somerset. Not even as a loan.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a loan—not that I’d ever make you repay any money I gave you, or—” He shook his head hard. “But that’s not what I meant.”

  She looked up sharply. “What do you mean? If you’re thinking one of Loretta’s friends can learn the contest dances and choreography in two weeks, I’m afraid you don’t quite understand the level of expertise necessary for—”

  He cut her off. “No. I’m not thinking about one of Miss Linden’s friends. I’m sure you’ll be able to find one of them who can dance at the Fairfield, and in time, will probably be a decent partner for you, but I was thinking of someone else for the contest.”

  “You were?”

  “I was.”

  “Who?” Or should that be whom? Bother. It didn’t matter.

  “Me.”

  Isabel stared at him, shocked. “You?”

  # # #

  Isabel and Loretta were in Loretta’s kitchen, making tea. Marjorie had gone out to run an errand, Mrs. Brandeis was doing something housekeeperish with the grocer’s man, and the two maidservants were about their daily duties. For the first time since she’s moved into Loretta’s Russian Hill abode, Isabel scarcely noticed the beauty of her tea service. She was feeling guilty.

  “Oh, Loretta, I know I shouldn’t have laughed, but his suggestion caught me off guard.”

  With a broad grin of her own, Loretta poured boiling water from the tea kettle into the teapot. “It was all I could do to keep a straight face when you told me, too, Isabel. Don’t feel guilty.”

  “I can’t help it. He’s been so kind to me, and I laughed at him. He didn’t like it, either.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  Loretta set the tea kettle back on the stove lid with a crash that made Isabel wince. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the nonchalant attitude Loretta held about her possessions. Yet another difference between the Lorettas and the Isabels of the world, she supposed. The Lorettas didn’t bother being careful with their things because they could just go out and buy others if they broke. “But he was so stiff and cold when he drove me home.” She nibbled on a knuckle.

  “He won’t hold it against you for long, dear,” Loretta assured her. “He’s quite taken with you.”

  Isabel stopped gnawing on her knuckle and stared at her friend. “He’s what?”

  “He’s taken with you. In fact, I do believe he’s quite in love with you.”

  Unable to respond, Isabel continued to stare.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Loretta said, laughing. “It’s the truth. I don’t understand how you could not know it yourself.”

  “My word.” Sensations flooded Isabel’s body in remembrance of the afternoon’s heated embrace. She felt her face flush. “He did . . . kiss me,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Aha! There, you see?” Loretta dropped a teacup. Isabel hastened to fetch the broom and dustpan. “Fiddlesticks. I’m so clumsy. Give me that broom, Isabel. I’m the one who broke it. I should be the one to clean it up.”

  Equality was too new to her. Isabel couldn’t just hand over the broom to a rich woman. Besides, she needed to do something to quell her embarrassment. “Nonsense,” she said, sweeping like mad.

  For several seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the scrape of the broom against the linoleum floor. Then Loretta spoke again.

  “Tell me, Isabel, you’ve . . . er . . . had experience. And Mr. FitzRoy kissed you this afternoon. What is it like? I mean, is it wonderful? I’ve heard two sides of the physical-love issue, but I want to know from someone who isn’t a free-thinking actress who has a reputation as a hellion to uphold. I mean, you’re normal. You ought to be able to tell me.”

  Isabel stood so abruptly, the dustpan tipped and pieces of broken teacup dropped to the floor, splintering into even smaller fragments. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” Loretta’s tone was dry. “I really want to know.”

  “But . . . don’t you know?” Isabel’s flush turned into a full-blown blush. She felt it. “I mean . . . well, I mean, you believe in free love and all that, don’t you?”

  Even more dryly, Loretta said, “Just because I believe in something doesn’t mean I’ve experienced it. I . . . well, I’m not the sort of woman men cherish, I guess. I’m too outspoken. Too independent. Too . . . well . . . unfeminine.”

  Isabel gaped at the woman who had been her salvation. “That’s bloody damned nonsense, Loretta Linden! You’re a beautiful, warm, wonderful woman!”

  “Fudge. Just answer my
question, will you?”

  Because it sounded to Isabel as if Loretta was becoming peeved with her, and because Isabel would die before she did anything to upset Loretta, she decided to answer the question.

  That didn’t preclude her feeling of embarrassment when she obliged her friend. “I still think you ought to find out for yourself, and it’s nonsense to say you’re not cherishable, but I must say that . . .” She paused to relish the recollection of the afternoon’s embrace. “It felt absolutely delicious to be in Somerset’s arms.”

  There. She’s said it out loud. She paid for it, too, when her cheeks positively caught fire. Pressing her palms against them, she admitted, “I wanted it to go on and on and . . . and lead to other things.” After taking a deep, sustaining breath, she said, “There. Now you know. I guess I’m an abandoned woman.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Loretta gazed at her with envy for a moment, then sighed lustily. “I wish somebody would want to kiss me like that.”

  Isabel put the teapot on a silver tray and goggled at Loretta. “Whatever do you mean by that? I’m sure many men would love to kiss you!”

  “Ha! That shows how much you know about my life.” Loretta made a move to go to the cupboard and fetch another teacup, and stepped on the shards of the broken one.

  Isabel jumped and began sweeping again. “That’s nonsense, Loretta. Why, you’re a very pretty woman. It’s true that you’re a woman of strong opinions and high moral standards and that you’re an outspoken proponent of many causes some men fear, but there are hundreds of other men to whom those characteristics would be unimportant—or even attractive. You wouldn’t want a fussy old reactionary, anyhow, would you?”

  With a sigh, Loretta returned with the teacup and set it, and the others, on the silver tray. “No, but I wouldn’t mind if somebody loved me.”

  “What about Dr. Abernathy? You and he are the best of friends. He thinks you’re wonderful.”

  “He thinks of me as his kid sister.”

  Oh. Well, pooh. Isabel wasn’t sure what to say to encourage her friend. When one only looked at Loretta, one saw a lively, charming woman with beautiful dark hair and huge dark eyes and a figure that any man would want to explore by hand. Loretta’s problem, Isabel decided bitterly, was that she was too bloody smart, and most men were scared to death of smart women. She feared her own daughter would encounter such prejudice in years to come. Because she truly believed it, even if she could provide no evidence, she said, “There’s someone for you in the world, Loretta Linden. I know it.”

  “Hmmm,” said Loretta. She picked up the tray and headed for the parlor, where Somerset FitzRoy and Jason Abernathy awaited the ladies. “I hope you’re right, because I’m about ready to snatch someone off the street, just to see what it feels like.”

  Isabel stared after her, her mouth open, for several seconds, before she dashed after her to open the door.

  # # #

  Once Isabel had stopped laughing at Somerset’s suggestion that he fill in for Jorge in the dance contest, she’d begun to realize that, in actual fact, Somerset was her only hope.

  It would help if he wasn’t so dratted stiff when he danced with her. That afternoon’s rehearsal hadn’t gone well, and Somerset had left in something of a huff. She hoped he’d forgive her for laughing at him and making suggestions about his dancing technique—and soon—because they had at least to look as if they got along while they danced in the contest.

  And if she was really lucky, he’d kiss her again.

  # # #

  Isabel woke with a jerk when Eunice threw herself onto her bed, sobbing as if her heart were broken, at about two-thirty the following morning.

  “Sweetheart! Whatever is the matter? Did you have another bad dream about the ship?”

  “Y-yes!”

  Eunice hugged her mother so tightly, Isabel feared she might strangle. Attempting to sit up while holding Eunice and, at the same time, move her into a less life-threatening hold, she blinked away sleep. “I’m so sorry, dearie. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Ahh. That was better. Isabel had managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position against the headboard with the pillows propped at her back.

  “Yes. No. Yes.” Eunice took a huge, shuddering breath. “I guess so.”

  Stroking her daughter’s pretty blond hair, Isabel’s heart ached for the little girl. Poor Eunice had enough to face in this life without the ghastly memories of the Titanic’s demise to plague her, too. “Take your time, sweetie. Just take your time. Remember that it was only a dream.”

  “I know.” Eunice sniffled and gulped. Her sobs had calmed into occasional hiccups. “I know it now. But I don’t know I’m dreaming when I’m dreaming. I wish I could.”

  “Yes,” agreed her mother. “That would help, wouldn’t it? I wonder if it’s possible to make yourself understand that you’re dreaming while you’re dreaming.” That sounded idiotic and Isabel was sorry she’d said it because Eunice didn’t care for idiocy, even from her mother.

  To her surprise, Eunice drew away and looked at her as if she’d uttered something insightful. “What a good idea!” Her little face was tear-streaked and blotchy, and she swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I wonder if it is possible. Perhaps I can find a book about dreams. I’ve heard that a doctor in Austria named Freud is studying dreams, and that he claims a person can, in some way, maniculize them. Maybe he’s published something on the subject.”

  Blinking at her brilliant child, Isabel said, “Um . . . maniculize them?”

  Eunice wiped away more tears and looked thoughtfully at her mother. “Doesn’t that mean to control or change?”

  “Oh. Manipulate, is the word you want, I think.”

  “Manipulate. Of course. Anyhow, he’s written a book about dreams.”

  “The Austrian?”

  “Yes. Dr. Freud.”

  “Wouldn’t it be written in German, though?”

  “That wouldn’t matter. I’m learning German.”

  Dear God. “That’s right. You are,” Isabel said doubtfully.

  “I hate these bad dreams, Mama. This one had my best friends, Rebecca and Lillian, in the water, calling for me to rescue them. I tried to reach them and couldn’t.” She sniffled pathetically.

  Isabel rocked her in her arms, her rhythm gentle.

  “I wish the dreams would stop,” Eunice said woefully. “I wish I could wake up before they get bad.”

  “I wish you could, too, sweetie.”

  “Hmmm.” Eunice’s tone turned contemplative. “I wonder if there’s a way to do that.”

  “Do what, sweetheart?”

  “Make me know I’m dreaming when I’m dreaming.”

  Isabel squinted down at her daughter, wishing she could fathom the convolutions of Eunice’s thinking processes. “Um . . . I beg your pardon?”

  “I bet there’s a way.” Eunice settled more comfortably on her mother’s lap. “Maybe I can find it in that book.”

  “Oh.” Well, if anyone could, it would be Eunice. “Would you like to sleep here for the rest of the night?” She thought suddenly that it was a good thing she couldn’t marry Somerset, should he ask her again, because three in a bed was one too many.

  “Yes. Thank you, Mama.” Eunice burrowed under the covers, and Isabel handed her one of the pillows.

  Eunice went to sleep with her mother’s arm around her. Isabel lay awake for a long, long time after her daughter slept, wondering what was to become of them both.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Am I looking confident enough?” Somerset refrained from adding the for you dancing on his tongue. He was mighty tired of Isabel constantly carping on how he didn’t come across as being confident enough, though. Damn it all, he was more of a man than Jorge Savedra could ever even dream of being, wasn’t he? Yes, he was, curse Jorge and Isabel both.

  And besides all that, they’d been dancing so hard for so long that his feet hurt, his head ached, and he feared his back was bro
ken, or the next thing to it. This dancing nonsense was hard work.

  “Almost.”

  Somerset ground his teeth but remained silent. It would do no good to object. Besides, he’d probably only look like a sniveling fusspot if he did.

  It was the Sunday before the contest was to be held, and he and Isabel had been dancing since noon. Isabel probably would have made them start earlier, but she was diligent about taking Eunice to Sunday school and church at the nearby Presbyterian church, and they couldn’t get started until after lunchtime. At least, Somerset thought sourly, Isabel had allowed him to eat lunch before she commenced torturing him.

  Now Eunice was upstairs taking a nap—which sounded like a very good idea to Somerset—Loretta was out somewhere stirring up mischief, and Marjorie was catching up on correspondence in her room. Isabel frowned as she sorted through piano rolls. “Would you mind going over ‘Bird in a Gilded Cage’ again? We’ve almost got the choreography down.”

  And that was another thing. According to Isabel, Somerset’s taller, more manly form required changes in the choreography she’d been practicing with that little fruit, Jorge. With exquisite—and silent—sarcasm, he reminded himself that Jorge wasn’t the fruit. Jorge was only a pain in the ass. Isabel’s new Fairfield dance partner, Geoffrey Gardner, found among the riffraff littering Loretta’s life, was the fruit. His jaw began to ache, so he unclenched his teeth. “I don’t mind at all.”

  Smiling brightly, Isabel took Somerset’s left hand. “Ready? We’ve almost got it.”

  It took a good deal of effort, but Somerset managed to pry his jaws apart. “Do you really think so?” He couldn’t help himself, and added, “Even given my level of incompetence and lack of confidence?”

  “Now, now, now, Somerset. You’re neither incompetent nor do you lack confidence. You do seem just a little stiff still, though.”

  He was stiff, all right, only not in the place Isabel meant. It was hell, dancing this close to her and not being able to rip her clothes off and do all the things he’d been dreaming about doing to her. Soon, though. He was going to get the woman to marry him or die trying.