by Jo Goodman
“But you’re in love with me.”
Before Bode’s birthday party, the carelessness with which Bram spoke would have pierced her heart and struck her dumb, if not struck her down. Now she didn’t flinch. “I think I might have been,” she said slowly, feeling her way. “I’m not sure. If I was, it’s not true any longer. And I’m quite certain about that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Again, it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re wrong.”
“We can remain friends,” she said. “I’d like to believe that doesn’t have to change.”
“But if you’re not in love with me . . .” His voice trailed off.
He was like a child, she thought; a child who had just discovered an often-neglected pull toy had lost its string. He wanted it fixed so his whims would dictate if it followed him or was left behind. It seemed to Comfort that she had loved him for so long, she’d never asked herself if she liked him.
“I don’t want to discuss marriage,” she told him. “On that, we have to agree to disagree.”
“You promised eight weeks. You gave me your word.”
“I know. I thought I could do it. I can’t.”
“What changed?” He looked from her to his leg and back again. “Is it because of the accident? Because I broke my leg? I can’t escort you anywhere. You won’t be seen on my arm.”
He still had the capacity to take her breath away, but it was no longer accompanied by a stutter in her heartbeat. “Is that how you assess my character? So petty? So small-minded?”
“I thought I could depend on your promise.”
“That’s no trifling matter to me either. I’m sorry.”
Bram shook his head, still trying to understand. “This has something to do with Bode.”
Comfort almost reared back at the accusation in his tone. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Dr. Harrison saw you with Bode at Rigoletto. He said something to you. I know it. You fainted.”
“He invited my uncles and me to share your family’s box. It had nothing at all to do with me fainting.”
“I’m telling you, Comfort, Bode hates the idea of our engagement.”
“Then he will be overjoyed. We’re not engaged.”
Frustrated, Bram shoved his fingers through his hair. “If I tell my mother our engagement is ended, she’ll believe it’s because you don’t want to be with a cripple.”
“Not if you tell her there never was any engagement. That’s what I expect, Bram. I expect you to tell her the truth. I’ll sit with you, if you like, and we’ll explain it together. She will help us determine what we must do next. I would value her advice.”
“We can’t end it,” Bram said. “We can’t.”
She frowned. “I don’t believe that, but if you do, you’ll have to explain.”
Bram’s lips parted. He was aware of Comfort’s frank regard. It silenced him.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Shall I ask your mother to join us?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell her myself.”
“Will you do right by me, Bram?”
“It pains me that you think you have to ask.”
“It pains me also.” She put out a hand and touched the back of his. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
He snatched his hand away. “I’ll do right by you. Of course I will.”
There was nothing for her to do but accept him at his word. “Do you want me to leave?”
Bram was a long time answering. “No. Stay. A little longer, I think.” He looked sideways at the bedside table and reached for the laudanum.
Comfort had the oddest feeling that he wasn’t taking the drug for the pain in his leg. She stayed with him until he fell asleep.
John Farwell jumped out of the way as a wagon loaded with casks of liquor lumbered dangerously close to where he was standing. He put out a hand to make sure the gentleman he was escorting to the Demeter Queen stayed well out of the dray’s path. It was late, nearing dusk on a summer’s evening, and the activity on the wharf hadn’t slowed appreciably since early morning. John looked side to side and then glanced up before he stepped out again.
“This way,” he said. “Before they set those crates down.”
The gentleman followed, but his eyes were on the bulging cargo net hoisted high above them. “What are they delivering?”
“Tea probably. That ship just arrived from China. Could be anything.”
“Is it part of the Black Crowne fleet?”
The clerk shook his head. John Farwell was a small, tidy man often dwarfed by those around him. While he lacked height, he carried himself with a certain air of self-importance that did not go unnoticed. His demeanor could have made him the subject of ridicule, except that it was widely acknowledged that he was important. Smooth operations up and down the wharf depended on him. Only the harbormaster held a position of more responsibility, but not even the harbormaster could create a bottleneck in the bay like John Farwell could with the Black Crowne fleet. It was understood that he acted on Beauregard DeLong’s orders, but he carried out those orders with such precision, even enthusiasm, that it was better to give him a wide berth.
“No,” he said. “That’s Victoria Belle. She’s out of London. Her master is Gordon Massey, and she’s owned by Lord Harold Barclay. You can tell a Barclay ship by its personal standard.” He pointed to the blue-and-white flag fluttering above the bow. “That’s a griffin. I understand it’s a symbol from the owner’s coat of arms.”
John Farwell put his arm out again, this time to keep the gentleman from stepping into a puddle of beer and broken glass. He directed him around it. “The remains of a brawl,” he said.
“That occurs frequently?”
“As frequently as a ship puts down anchor.”
“But that must be every day.”
“More often than that.” The clerk spared a glance for his companion as they walked. “This is your first time here, I imagine.”
“That’s right.”
John nodded. “Folks new to the city are usually surprised by the traffic. Where are you from?”
“Sacramento.”
“I’ve never been. All politics that way.”
“Before politics there was gold.”
“There certainly was.” John Farwell was not particularly curious. If the gentleman he was accompanying to the Demeter Queen made his fortune panning or mining, it was a story he’d heard before, or at least some version of it. He cared a great deal more that they were not plunged into the bay by a skittish horse or a runaway wagon, or worse, pressed into service on a vessel that trafficked in human cargo and opium. The lateness of the hour almost assured that the Barbary Coast press gangs would be coming out to prowl the wharf and look for prey.
Weaving in and out of rolling barrels and vendors closing up their carts, John Farwell hurried along, only sparing the occasional glance to make certain his companion stayed in step.
“There she is,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt. “The Demeter Queen.” He pointed to the detailed black figurehead below the bowsprit. “All Black Crowne ships have a figurehead made of ebony wood. Some people see right off that she looks like the black queen on a chessboard. Takes others some time to find the crown that’s carved into her hair.”
“I believe her hair becomes the crown.”
The clerk was impressed that the man could make that out in the failing light, but he didn’t pause to remark on it. “This way. Mr. DeLong will be with the Demeter’s master.” John led him up the gangplank and onto the deck. Looking past the crew members that were orchestrating a massive lift from the cargo hold, John spied Bode and the master standing at the guardrail near the capstan. “There they are. I can make the introductions, but then I must leave. When you’ve concluded your business, you should ask Mr. DeLong to find you an escort to take you away from the Coast.”
“Really? I thought I might want to see for myself what the papers are writi
ng about.”
“Then you should have someone who knows the area show you around. The Rangers will pin you right away.”
“Pin me?”
“As a mark.”
“I see.”
John Farwell had his doubts, but he had discharged his warning and bore no further responsibility. If the man didn’t use the sense God gave him, then he deserved what happened to him. It wasn’t as if Black Crowne would be affected. Beauregard DeLong didn’t suffer fools, and he certainly didn’t do business with them.
Nathan Douglas, master mariner of the Demeter Queen, was the first to see John Farwell approaching. He stopped talking and jerked his bearded chin in the direction of the pair bearing down on them.
Bode glanced over his shoulder. He saw his clerk immediately. It took him a moment to realize John wasn’t alone, and a second glance to realize he recognized the man accompanying him. Bode didn’t have a chance to excuse himself from Douglas’s side before John arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Farwell?”
The clerk stood back at what he judged was a respectful distance. It was natural for him to project the illusion of height by maintaining a correct, if somewhat stiff, carriage. “This is Mr. James R. Crocker of Sacramento. He most particularly wanted to make the acquaintance of the head of Black Crowne Shipping.”
“Oh?” Bode held out his hand to Mr. Crocker. “Mr. Farwell should have taken you to meet my mother. I’m Beau DeLong, and I believe we’ve already met.”
James R. Crocker nodded. His slim smile was visible behind his neatly trimmed mustache and beard. “Yes. Rigoletto. I didn’t know if you would recall. There were several things happening at once, weren’t there?”
“Indeed.” Bode introduced Nathan Douglas and then excused himself and Mr. Crocker from the circle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John Farwell hurry away and realized his clerk was getting off the wharf before nightfall. “Come with me, Mr. Crocker. We can have relative privacy starboard.” He led Crocker across the bow to the opposite rail. “How can I help you? There aren’t many people that most particularly want to make my acquaintance.”
Crocker’s smile widened briefly, revealing a small gap between his front teeth. “Those are Mr. Farwell’s words, not mine.”
“I thought they might be.” The night of the opera, Bode had had the impression of a man whose age was near to his own. Now he saw that James R. Crocker was older, more of an age with his mother or Comfort’s uncles. There were fine lines around his chestnut-colored eyes, and his beard was salted with wiry white threads. He had a broad, square jaw and a nose whose line was slightly off-center and may have been broken. He wore a short-brimmed hat with a rounded crown that was popular among a certain set of gentlemen. It wasn’t what he would have worn to Rigoletto. Opening night required a top hat. This was a hat for sporting men. Gamblers.
That explained why he met so many blank stares when he asked after the man. He’d been making inquiries in the wrong circles. He should have asked his brother.
Crocker touched the brim of his hat in a manner that might have been a salute. “I’m here because of what happened at the opera,” he said. “I have been concerned about the young woman who fainted. I understand she is Miss Comfort Kennedy, niece of the gentlemen that left with you.”
Bode nodded. It was pointless to deny any part of what Crocker had already learned for himself. It hadn’t occurred to him that the person he was seeking on Comfort’s behalf might be interested in her. “That doesn’t exactly explain why you’re here, Mr. Crocker. You could be addressing your concerns to Miss Kennedy, or better yet, her uncles.”
“I considered that, but I thought it might be deemed too forward. Sometimes coming to the back door is a more effective approach.”
“If you’re a tinker or a bank robber.”
He chuckled. “I’m neither. I was led to believe that her uncles are very protective and that they wouldn’t welcome my inquiry. Someone, and I don’t recall who it was any longer, told me I might find out what I wanted to know from you.”
“Maybe,” Bode said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Depending on what it is you want to know.”
“How she fares, that’s all. According to acquaintances that do business with Jones Prescott, she hasn’t been seen regularly at the bank since the opera. That’s been more than a week.”
“I don’t know about that.” And he didn’t. He’d been working all day and well into the night. Except to talk to some of the people he remembered standing nearby when Comfort fainted, he’d hardly strayed four blocks in any direction from the office and warehouse. “I haven’t seen Miss Kennedy since the day after the opening. She was fine.”
“Well, that’s gratifying to hear. She collapsed so suddenly. I thought she might have hit her head on the stair railing.”
“No. She was already coming around by the time I got her outside.”
“That’s good to know.” He cleared his throat. “Someone told me that Miss Kennedy is your brother’s fiancée. Did I understand that right?”
“Yes.”
“I thought whoever told me must have got it wrong. I was certain she was with you that evening.”
Bode didn’t like the direction Crocker was steering the conversation. “She was with her uncles.”
Crocker nodded and cleared his throat again. There was still a faint rasp when he spoke. “I understand your brother—Abraham, is it?”
“Bram.”
“Yes, Bram. When I learned that he’d broken his leg, I realized that might explain why you were escorting her.”
“She was with her uncles,” Bode repeated. “I invited all of them to my family’s box.”
“That was thoughtful.” He cupped his hand to his throat and massaged it gently. “Excuse me.” Reaching into the pocket in the lining of his jacket, he removed a red-and-white tin. He used his thumbnail to flick it open and took out a lozenge. “Do you want one?”
Bode shook his head.
Crocker put it in his mouth and immediately cheeked it. “You’d be surprised how often people accept the offer,” he said, closing the tin and slipping it back inside his jacket. “It’s the peppermint, I suppose. People think they’re candy.”
“So it’s not only soprano arias that put a tickle in your throat.”
“What?” Confusion brought his eyebrows together. “What are you—” His features cleared as the answer came to him. “You’re talking about what I said at the break. I’d forgotten that. No, it isn’t only sopranos. I have a . . . a condition . . . I suppose you’d say. That’s what the doctors call it. I call it a pain in my neck.”
Bode smiled thinly. “Is there anything else, Mr. Crocker?”
“No. No, there isn’t. The young lady’s fine; that’s all I wanted to know. Will you tell her I inquired?”
“Of course.” Bode had no idea if he would tell Comfort anything about his encounter with Crocker, but saying as much would have only extended their conversation. “Good evening, Mr. Crocker.”
Crocker didn’t move.
“What is it?” asked Bode. For the first time, he thought James R. Crocker looked hesitant. “You’ve decided there is something else?”
“Mr. Farwell said I should ask about an escort when I was ready to leave.”
“He’s right. I’ll find someone.”
Crocker hesitated. “I thought perhaps you would . . .”
“I haven’t finished with Mr. Douglas. I won’t be ready to leave for a while.” Before Crocker could say that he’d wait, Bode waved one of the crew over and gave him instructions. “Right to his door,” he said. “Nowhere else. I want to know he arrived safely.” And I want to know where he’s living. Bode nodded to Crocker. “You’re in good hands.”
“Thank you, then.” He touched his finger to his hat before he turned smartly and followed his escort to the gangway.
It was after ten when Bode awoke. Cursing softly, he rose and drew back the curtains. Light spilled into his bedroom, momentarily blind
ing him. He put up one hand to shield his eyes and groped with the other one to find his patch. If he’d been less exhausted when he arrived home, he would have opened the curtains before he went to bed. Daybreak would have prevented him from sleeping so long.
He went through all the rituals that followed waking without giving them any thought. Although he managed his routine quickly, he didn’t expect to get it done without interruption. There were days when he rose at dawn that John Farwell was pounding on his door inside of twenty minutes.
Bode found John at the front of the office assigning the three clerks he supervised their duties for the day. As he seemed to have it all well in hand, Bode told him that he was going to Jones Prescott and kept on walking. He felt four pairs of eyes follow his progress out the door and as he passed in front of the window.
Twenty minutes later he was walking under the granite tablature of the bank without glancing up at the cornices or the deeply engraved names. He crossed the lobby to the teller cages and was informed that neither Mr. Jones nor Mr. Prescott was in the bank. Bode hesitated, wondering if he should ask after Comfort. Before he made his decision, Mr. Tweedy offered the information.
“I know the way,” Bode said and started for the door.
Comfort nearly dropped the stack of ledgers she was holding when Bode suddenly appeared in the corridor. He slipped a hand under them and lent support until she had them securely in her arms again.
“I thought you’d be at your desk,” he said.
Since he moved as lightly as a cat, Comfort thought he would have surprised her in any circumstances. “I’m taking these there,” she said, hefting them again. “My uncles aren’t here.”
“I know. I asked for them.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Mr. Tweedy told me you were in your office.”
Comfort started walking away. “And I will be again.” Bode tempered his amusement in the event she stole a look
over her shoulder and threw one of those ledgers at his head. He followed her across the threshold of her office. She set the ledgers on top of a desk that was already crowded with documents, newspapers, and an assortment of odds and ends that she apparently used as paperweights. He just shook his head.