When he arrived, the front window was boarded up. A hand-lettered sign propped in the windowsill read We Are Open. He passed through into the front room and saw the blond young lady, sans potatoes, carrying an armload of towels through a doorway to his right.
“Excuse me, miss? What happened here?” he asked.
“No, no, no,” she said. “I told you. I see through all of your stripes!” Still holding the towels, she made a dismissive gesture. “Acting like a good man, and then you turn around and cost us hundreds! And at the start of the season!” Even in the gloom of the boarded-up bathhouse, he could see the anger in her eyes. She strode off towards the changing room.
Owen followed her. “I beg your pardon! Are you accusing me of breaking your window?”
“I’m sure there are any number of things I could accuse you of doing, mister.” Her voice had risen enough that the exchange might attract the attention of the men in the dining room. Or worse, Mrs. Wilson.
“Perhaps we can discuss this in private?” he asked in his most reasonable tone of voice.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Like you were discussing with Mrs. McSheen? No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I almost wish you’d been a pervert. You’re worse.”
Did she know the real reason for his trip? How could she have possibly found out? “Would you care to be more specific, miss?” he asked.
The woman was so pale that her eyebrows were almost invisible, but there was no mistaking her baleful expression. “You leave after your treatment. Not five minutes later a brick comes crashing through our window. Now you’re having a rat’s chat with Mrs. McSheen. You come in, pretend to be a customer, throw the money around, make friends, and all the while you’re trying to betray us.”
Owen felt a pang in his gut that didn’t come from hunger. She was right in the wrong way. He had lied, but he’d done it for a good reason. “You said someone threw a brick through that window? Intentionally?”
“Yes,” Ilsa said. “It shattered all the pretty bottles and the whole Wilson’s sign. Another piece of Scripture wrapped on a brick and delivered by the good Christians of Fraser Springs.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but we can’t afford to send away for new glass all the way from Vancouver. And how are we supposed to attract customers with a boarded-up front, right at the beginning of the season?” She suddenly looked as if she might cry.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “I can assure you that it wasn’t my doing. I don’t mean you any harm.” Except that he did. The article that could make his career would ruin Mrs. Wilson’s, land her in jail even, but only if she were guilty. So far, the evidence against her was just hearsay and rumour, and it was hard to side with people who seemed to express their beliefs by way of property damage.
“It was cruel,” she said.
“It was. It was a cowardly act, but I didn’t do it.”
Ilsa stared straight at him. She was calm now, straight-backed and clear-eyed. She did not seem like a woman with anything to hide. “I have work to attend to, Mr. Wister. Excuse me.”
With that, she brushed past him and disappeared down a hallway. Owen thought of the fancy suit that hung from the hook on the bathroom door. The gold watch was cool in his pocket. Silly theatrics, all of it. He was better at writing stories than acting them out.
All this distance, all this time and money, and it seemed that his big scoop was nothing more than the nasty gossip of bored church ladies. Some journalist he was, ready to destroy the reputation of a woman just trying to get by after the death of her husband. The clumsy sneaking around, the false identity: it suddenly seemed not merely awkward but utterly, comically inept, too. He was going to return to Vancouver a fool. Worse: a failure. His appetite suddenly gone, he thought about going back to bed and sleeping off his embarrassment and disappointment until he could slink home on tomorrow morning’s boat. But no. He had come all this way and was not about to leave empty-handed. He could be Ross Wister for another few days if it meant getting something honest into print.
Chapter 10
Jo woke up angry at herself, angry at the town, and angry at Ross Wister. She’d dreamed about him again. What had gotten into her? Her bathhouse was under attack and she was distracted by schoolgirl dreams. Despite his charm, the man was nothing more than a stranger with questionable intentions, who might well be conspiring with the Society Ladies to run her out of town.
Embarrassing as it might be to admit, the explanation for his presence in her dreams was likely simple enough. She was ... drawn to him, physically. He was undeniably handsome, and he had such a lovely, open smile. It had been so long since a man had smiled at her the way he had during that knife-throwing incident yesterday morning. For all the gossip about the temptation and seduction to be found at Wilson’s, she’d lived like the abbess of a nunnery since Albert’s death. It was gratifying to be flirted with, end of story. A little vanity: that was all there was to whatever passing interest she might have in Mr. Ross Wister.
Still, a nagging inner voice reminded her as climbed out of bed, she had been wrong about men before. She’d thought Albert was a decent man with whom she could build a secure life. Though she’d been right about the first part, she could not have been more wrong about the second. Clearly, her judgment could not be trusted.
She finished dressing and headed downstairs to help the girls with breakfast but found that, once again, she had badly overslept and the meal was set. The regular patrons sat shoveling food in silence. Mr. Wister and Nils sat together, though Mr. Wister did not seem to be paying attention to anything Nils said or to her entrance. He stared into his coffee mug, lost in his own thoughts.
The boarded-up window gave the room the gloomy hush of pre-dawn. Ilsa, who was filling coffee cups, avoided her gaze and wasn’t joking with the patrons as she normally would. Likely embarrassed by her outburst last night. But was Jo the one who should be embarrassed? Was she allowing Ross Wister to spy on her in exchange for a few charming smiles and winks? She tried to read his expression but kept recalling how he looked in the lamplight, his eyes studying her so intently.
“Ilsa, can you bring the oil lamps for the tables? No one can see their food.”
Ilsa set down the coffee carafe. “Right away, ma’am.” Gone was the easy smile, the chirpy “Yes, Miz Jo.”
The possible reasons for Ross Wister’s presence nagged at Jo as she managed the toast and coffee. They nagged at her as she attended to him, still silent and distracted, in the bathhouse. The brick incident had cast a pall over the main soaking room. Even the usually gregarious miners sat staring forward or towards the high, vertical windows. Everyone seemed lost in thought.
It wasn’t until the massage treatments that she relaxed into the rhythm of the day. Ross Wister was already undressed to the waist and lying facedown on the treatment table when she entered. He looked up and nodded a greeting. Like Ilsa, he avoided eye contact.
“How are you today?” she asked as she laid out the towels, cringing at the chill in her voice. Dammit if she didn’t keep seeing him as in the dream: touching her face, staring into her eyes. The outline of his muscles tapered down towards the two divots on his lower back, and his skin was faintly sheened with sweat already. She tried to force the professionalism back into her voice. What kind of proprietress was she?
Soon, Ilsa came in with fresh supplies. When Mr. Wister saw her, his gaze quickly flicked elsewhere and his shoulders rose with tension. Was there something between them? She ruthlessly suppressed the pang of—jealousy? No, merely annoyance. Maybe this mystery was the oldest, most predictable secret in the book: he was attracted to buxom nineteen-year-olds.
“Thank you,” Jo said. “That should be everything for now.”
Ilsa nodded and left the room hastily. Mr. Wister seemed to relax.
The moment the warm oil made contact with her palms, Jo relaxed as well. Her hands kneaded and smoothed taut muscle, moving with the mindless confidence of long practice. Th
ey found the hidden knots of tension under the skin and traced their sources across his back. She loved the strength of her hands, the feeling of satisfaction she got when a knot released and a man’s pain fell away. She might not be able to predict the bricks through her window or the future of Wilson’s Bathhouse, but in this room, at this moment, she was in complete control.
“Am I allowed to converse with you during this, or is it customary to keep mum and drift off to sleep?” he suddenly asked.
She did not break the rhythm of her motions. “Most do. Keep quiet, that is. Others, though ... I think some men pay for someone to talk to, more than anything.”
“They get lonely.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.
She worked her way towards his lower back. “I suppose so. And then some people are just natural talkers, and there are more of them than there are natural listeners. The talkers get a captive audience this way.”
“And are you a natural listener?” he asked, almost playfully.
She poured more oil onto her hands. Truly, the man held tension everywhere. “I take it you’re a talker, then. What’s on your mind, sir?”
“Touché, madam.” She felt as well as heard his smile. Funny how when someone smiled you could feel it ripple throughout their muscles. “I’m afraid that my mind is a perfect and uninterrupted expanse of emptiness.”
“Then what could possibly be causing these headaches of yours, I wonder?”
She’d reached the base of his spine and was pressing her thumb into the hollows there.
He sighed, and the lightness was suddenly gone from their conversation. “To be honest, headaches don’t trouble me overmuch. And I don’t think my nerves are all that unsound. I’m not an invalid.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to this admission, and the silence stretched.
“I’m just not ... all that happy, really. In my work, that is.”
Another long pause. Jo focused on making perfectly circular motions with her fingertips. The man’s unhappiness was no concern of hers. “It was supposed to be a temporary thing, you know. Just something to do until I got my feet under me. I have a talent for it, and it seemed like the obvious thing to make a little money. And it was fun, at first. The thrill of victory, you know.”
“Mmm,” Jo made a vaguely encouraging noise as she worked down towards his shoulders.
“And then I looked up, and years have gone by, and I’m still going over the same ground, and the joy’s just completely gone from it. I’m repeating the motions, and one day I realized that I’m practically doing them in my sleep. I’ve been at it almost ten years, and I don’t have one thing to show for it that I can feel really proud of.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she murmured. Why was she encouraging him? This wasn’t the kind of confession she needed from him.
He snorted. “All I’ve thought about for months now is taking every scrap of paper I’ve ever scribbled on and burning it to ash.” Jo’s hands stilled, although he didn’t seem to register the loss of soothing motion. “I’m a damned ungrateful bastard, forgive the language, and I know it. I know there’s a raft of men—probably women too—who’d give their eyeteeth for what I’ve got. I’ve got a soft life, and that’s the truth. A safe, sheltered, soft little life.”
He practically spat the words out, and his own vehemence startled him back into self-awareness. All of her work had come undone. His back was taut. “I’m sorry,” he said into the stillness. “I suppose I’m a talker after all.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said a little too lightly and busied her hands again with renewed briskness.
They continued in silence.
Finally, quietly, she spoke. “It’s not that unusual, if it helps any.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The way you feel. That you’re just marking the time without ever going anywhere. That you haven’t made the right choices.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience, Mrs. Wilson?” In any other room, the question might have been a flirtation. Now, however, he sounded utterly in earnest, as if the answer meant a great deal to him.
“We all make mistakes, Mr. Wister,” she replied, slowly. “We make the best choices we can, in the moment, and try to live with them afterwards. And I’m sure we make mistakes in that as well.” Even to her own ears, she sounded so tired as she made this pronouncement, more deeply weary than a woman still in her twenties should be.
She turned away and began rattling shut little pots and tins, opening drawers to retrieve clean cloths, and shuffling the soiled ones into a little hamper at one side of the room. Owen seemed to recognize her sudden burst of industry as channeled discomfort and took his cue. He sat up, reaching for his shirt.
At the sound, Jo turned her head slightly. “Mr. Wister, may I ask you a question? While we’re being honest.”
He froze. “Of course, Mrs. Wilson.”
“If you’re not an invalid, why are you here?”
• • •
Everything depended on how he answered her, and yet he shrank from the lies that sprang immediately to mind. He took a deep breath. His skin buzzed with the effects of the massage, but his mind was suddenly totally clear. Oh, to hell with it. To hell with the whole pockmarked farce.
“I lied to you when we met. I didn’t come here for my health. I came here ... well, on a mission, I suppose.”
He couldn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see the reaction in those pale grey eyes. Jo Wilson was perfectly, breathlessly still. Not a single fold in her skirts shifted.
“You see, I’m a writer. I finally convinced my publisher to give me a shot at journalism ... and he’d heard rumors about this place ….”
He finally summoned the courage to look into her eyes. Her brows were furrowed, her gaze unreadable. “A writer,” she echoed, slowly.
“A writer,” he confirmed. “I write novels, mostly. Not very good ones. I thought that a bit of muckraking might be the start of something new for me. You know, young girls lured from their homes with promises of honest employment, trapped in a den of iniquity and vice, and all that.” The premise seemed patently absurd when spoken aloud in this spartan little room. “I’m sorry. I was misinformed.”
She busied her hands by folding a towel and smoothed away whatever expression was on her face. “Ah. Well, then. I hope you’ve found us thoroughly disappointing, Mr. Wister.” Her voice was perfectly controlled. She could have been commenting on the weather.
In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d probably already offended her beyond redemption. “That’s another lie, I’m afraid. The name, I mean.” He held out his hand. “Owen Sterling. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Her own hands stayed firmly tucked the towel. “I don’t suppose you lobbed a brick through my front window to make your story a little more dramatic, did you, Mr. Whomever?”
He kept his hand stubbornly extended. “Sterling. No, of course not. Complete waste of a good brick, if you ask me.”
Damn. He shouldn’t have made a joke of that. But before he could apologize, her steely expression had softened. She gingerly reached out her own hand, and he seized it before she could change her mind. Her hands were still slick from the massage oil and warmed from the effort of her work. He felt the calluses on her palms and the pads of her fingers.
The sensation made him suddenly aware that his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open. He’d been so distracted by his own troubles that he’d completely forgotten about his state of undress. He released her hand as quickly as he’d taken it.
“Will you be leaving us, then?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind as to that,” he responded, buttoning his shirt in what was, hopefully, an entirely unselfconscious way. The salve from her hands lingered on his as he struggled with the buttons. “I’ll readily admit that this has been a less than ideal trip in terms of exposing vice, but I’m not in a burning rush to get back to Vancouver. I believe I’m paid up through the week here?”<
br />
“Through Monday next, actually.”
“How extravagant of me.”
She nodded, no doubt confirming his lack of thrift. “Am I to understand that you won’t be so free with your pocketbook now that you’re no longer a financial gentleman?”
“I beg your pardon.” He might not be a banker, but he wasn’t a charity case either. “How do you know I’m not a celebrated and wealthy author?”
“Because you said you weren’t very good. And because if you were celebrated and wealthy, I would have heard of you, Mr. Sterling.” He couldn’t quite tell if she was being serious. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but that wry little smile was still haunting the corners of her eyes.
“You wound me, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll have you know that my work is extremely popular.” With young boys and your handyman.
“I suppose it would be, if your usual subject is ... I’m sorry, remind me again what you thought you’d find here? Captive virgins, I believe?” She was teasing him now; he was absolutely sure of it.
“I’m beginning to suspect the establishment is staffed entirely by Amazons,” he grumbled.
There, she laughed at that. “That would be a fair sight closer to the truth, I’m afraid.” Was this the first time he’d heard her laugh? It was such a bright, happy sound that he was inordinately pleased with himself for having drawn it from her. He smiled back at her.
And suddenly the little smile was gone again, and Mrs. Wilson was all bustle and business. “At any rate, if you prefer to leave early, I’m sure we could refund a portion of your payment. There might be a small delay, expenses being what they are at the moment, but if you’d care to leave your Vancouver address with us, we can forward a cheque ...” Owen levered onto his feet, mystified, as she continued on, something about the postal service and railway timetables.
She was halfway out the door before he could get a word in edgewise. “Mrs. Wilson.” She spun to face him, her torrent of managerial chatter cut off mid-sentence. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay the duration.”
The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson Page 6