by Lyn Cote
Cecy’s own school days had been filled with taunts and slights. Children unerringly picked out the weakest to torture. I’m not weak anymore. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Susan and I’ve decided to teach them at home.”
She didn’t like the hollow, sad sound in his voice. But what could she do to help?
“You’ll be busy for a few days getting your mother settled, but then I want you to begin accompanying me on a few interviews.”
She set her cup onto the doily-covered table between them. She recognized his effort to bolster her confidence.
Susan slid open the pocket door. “Miss Jackson, Meg wants you to say prayers with her.”
“Would you mind?” Linc asked.
“No, but…”
“She’s waiting.” Susan folded her hands over her ample girth.
Cecy went upstairs, but hesitated at the open door to Meg’s room.
Standing beside a doll-sized cradle, Meg hugged her porcelain-headed doll. “Time to sleep, Matilda. Don’t you worry. You won’t have any nightmares.” The little girl tucked her doll into its cradle with a small hand-stitched crazy quilt.
Cecy drew close. “Meg, Susan said you want—”
“I want to say prayers with you.” Meg tugged Cecy over to her high bed. “Because I like you. You talk nice and you’re pretty.” Meg knelt and pulled Cecy down beside her. The hardwood floor brought the reality of the moment to Cecy.
Still a genuine smile lifted the corners of Cecy’s mouth. Yet Cecy dreaded hearing the chant, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” She’d been forced to recite these awful words aloud at school. “You say the prayer, Meg.”
“Dear Father in heaven,” Meg began. “I love you. I’m trying to like it here in San Francisco, but it’s not easy. Please make people here like Del and me.”
Cecy floundered. This cozy conversation was prayers to Meg?
The little girl continued. “Bless Papa, Susan, Del, and Miss Jackson, my new friend, and her mama. Hug my mama in heaven and tell her I still miss her.” Then she began to recite, “The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want…”
The Twenty-third Psalm. Cecy had heard it thousands of times. But hearing it in this child’s voice released a memory from deep in Cecy’s misty past.
Before she’d been sent away, someone had held her close and prayed this over her many times. But the voice Cecy heard in her memory wasn’t her mother’s. Whose was it?
Chapter 9
As the afternoon sun waned, the butler held the door open. Cecy waited for her mother to precede her, but the lady froze, staring up at the stone house.
Cecy murmured, “Is something wrong?”
Her mother slowly crossed the solid brass threshold.
The butler closed the door behind them. “Miss Jackson, I took the liberty of ordering tea for you in the conservatory.”
Cecy took her mother’s arm. The older woman looked around as though she’d never seen the house before. The ride home had been an agony of uncomfortable silences and forced pleasantries. This is my mother, the person I should feel the closest to in all the world. They were strangers.
The conservatory filled with luxuriant, fragrant plants overcame the emptiness of the mansion. Cecy wished she could ask her mother about the hazy memory Meg’s prayers had triggered. Instead, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired.” Still, her mother sat very straight, not letting her spine touch the chair back. Just like Cecy had been taught by Auntie.
The butler entered bearing a tray with tea and sandwiches. Cecy smiled her thanks and he withdrew. “Did I tell you that I’ll be writing for a new journal?” More important questions wanting answers simmered deep inside her. Why did you marry Father? Why did you let Father send me away?
“Do you like to write?” Her mother’s gaze met hers.
This question hadn’t occurred to her. “I suppose.”
“Your plants are beautiful.”
Why did you turn to drinking spirits? Did Father drive you to it? “I come here when I’m troubled.” Will you ask me what’s troubling me now, Mother?
Her mother lifted her translucent cup. As the light in the room shone through the cup, Cecy wished her past, and her mother’s, could be that transparent.
“Cecilia, who’s your business advisor?”
The question startled Cecy. “Mr. Edmonds.”
“Have you spoken to him regularly?”
Cecy tried to read her mother’s bland tone and emotionless face. “No, I’ve been preoccupied.”
“You should see him soon.”
“Oh?” Why, Mother?
“A woman, even a journalist, should never assume men are watching out for her where money is concerned.”
Cecy hid behind her teacup. What had prompted this advice?
“Are you seeing anyone?” Her mother didn’t meet Cecy’s eyes.
“No.” Cecy gave the pat explanation she’d already used with others. “Becoming a journalist will be more satisfying than being a debutante, don’t you think?”
“I never thought of you pursuing a career.”
Neither did I. Linc said Aunt Amelia gave me bad advice. Could you have warned me? Why didn’t you?
The butler ushered Susan and Meg into the conservatory. Cecy’s mood lifted just seeing Meg’s face brimful of suppressed excitement. “Meg, hello.”
“I brought a present for your mama.” The little girl skipped over to the lady.
“Who are you?” Cecy’s mother asked.
Cecy touched one of Meg’s red-ribboned braids. “Meg’s Linc Wagstaff’s daughter.” Cecy motioned toward Susan. “This is Susan, Mr. Wagstaff’s family friend. She’s spending tonight with us. Susan, this is my mother, Florence.” Smiling, Susan lowered herself into the chair beside Cecy’s.
“Want to see your present?” Meg leaned closer.
Florence framed Meg’s rosy face with her fragile white hands. “What a sweet face you have.”
From her red spring coat, Meg drew out a tiny, gray-striped kitten. “Want to hold it?”
“Oh, my,” Florence breathed.
“It’s a girl kitty.” Meg gently laid the tiny ball of fur into the lady’s hands. “You pet it careful like this.” Meg demonstrated by stroking the kitten’s head with one finger. “She’s very little.”
Florence stroked the kitten, too. The furry baby mewed and rubbed against her hand, begging for more attention. “Cecilia, may I keep the kitten?”
The childlike question pinched Cecy. “Mother, this is your home. You can have whatever you wish.”
Florence smiled, her drawn face showing new color and life.
“Last night our neighbor brought them over for me and Del. I got a girl kitty and Del got a boy.”
“Who’s Del?”
“He’s my grandson,” Susan spoke up with a smile.
“What are you going to name her?” Meg stared up at Cecelia’s mother’s face.
“What do you suggest?” the lady asked.
Wearing a sailor blouse, Meg swished herself side to side, making her navy blue pleated skirt swirl. “Something for a real little kitty.”
Florence tapped Meg’s nose. “When I saw you walk in, I thought, what a pretty little miss. Why don’t we call her Missy?”
“Yes.” Meg clapped her hands.
Missy cringed and meowed piteously.
“Don’t be afraid, Missy,” Florence crooned. “I’ll take care of you.”
Over-sensitive emotions rolled and swirled inside Cecy. Why did she feel like crying? Meg petted and cooed to the kitten. Susan cleared her throat. “Ma’am, you need a nap.”
The lady sighed. “I am tired.”
“Mother, your room is all ready.” Cecy stood, unsure whether she should accompany Susan or not.
“Thank you, dear. Coming home…” Her mother suddenly appeared near tears.
Cecy felt the same way. “If you need anything, Mother, just let us know.”
Treasuring her kitty in the crook of her arm on her way out of the room, her mother paused. “Seeing this sweet little girl brought Millie Anderson to mind.”
“Millie Anderson?”
“I suppose you don’t remember Millie. She was your nanny. It would be lovely to see her again.”
Cecy stood, stunned. She recalled the image and voice that she couldn’t place. “Did she recite the Twenty-third Psalm to me?”
“Every night.”
Her mother’s simple words rocked Cecy. As Susan led Florence from the conservatory, Cecy shut her eyes, holding back tears.
“Don’t cry.” Meg hugged her.
Tears streamed from Cecy’s eyes. Nana, I remember you. You loved me.
In his Pierce Arrow, Linc saw Cecilia’s hands were clenched in her lap. Was she nervous about accompanying him to an interview? Or was it her mother? Susan had let him know how tentative relations were between Cecilia and her mother.
Linc parked the car at red brick Fire House Number One, where Fire Department chief, Dennis Sullivan, had his office. As Linc escorted Cecy inside, she gripped his arm. He’d brought her along to inspire her with a desire to write, to interview. Originally he hadn’t meant to have Cecilia write for his journal. He’d merely wanted to influence her to take action against child labor. She had the right business interests, money. He hoped his new plan for her worked. The human stakes were high.
After the introductions in the office, Linc and Cecy sat down side by side, facing Sullivan at his desk. Linc took out a notebook and pencil. Cecy followed suit.
“Which paper did you say you were writing for?” Sullivan asked.
“The article’s for my weekly journal, Cause Celebre.”
“Haven’t read that one.”
Linc grinned. “This interview will appear in the premiere issue later this month. Cause Celebre will tackle issues other papers avoid.”
Sullivan snorted. “So that’s why you’re here. I’ve tried to interest the Examiner, Call, and Bulletin in my worries and they all say a story like mine is bad for circulation. Nobody wants to think about a possible earthquake.”
“Do you think there will be another earthquake?” Cecy glanced at the slender man with graying temples, her interest caught.
“Hel…I mean, heavens, yes.” Sullivan grinned sheepishly.
“So tell us what needs to be done—if and when another earthquake strikes.” Linc poised his pencil over his paper.
Cecy wrote “Earthquake Measures” on her page.
“It’s impossible to predict when an earthquake will hit,” Sullivan began. “But let’s be realistic. San Francisco has seen them before and will see them again. That hasn’t changed, but our population density has increased. And now everyone has gas piped into their houses. Even if they’ve hooked up to electricity, most people cook with gas now, not wood. Cracked or broken gas pipes are an open invitation to fire.”
Cecy hadn’t expected interviewing the fire chief to be interesting. But this was riveting.
“In 1860, the city fathers showed more foresight than the jokers today. Back in the sixties, they constructed large underground cisterns throughout the city to fight fires. But these need to be repaired and reactivated. The biggest problem in fighting any large-scale fire is getting water. If gas pipes break, the water pipes will break, too. If water pipes break—”
“You can’t get the water to fight the fires.” Linc scribbled on his pad.
“Give that man a cigar.” Sullivan nodded.
“So why aren’t the cisterns being reactivated?” Cecy asked. She waited to jot down the man’s answer.
Sullivan grunted. “Money, of course. The Reuf gang that got Schmitz elected is too busy siphoning off municipal funds to be concerned about a little thing like the safety of the citizens.”
“Graft?” Linc demanded.
Sullivan’s concern was clear in the tautness of his posture and in his grave expression. “If they won’t give us water, we need to purchase high explosives to fuel firebreaks. But they nixed that, too.”
“Firebreaks?” Cecy glanced up from her notebook.
He looked at her. “Yes, a trained fire department can devise and explode a series of firebreaks, lines of very dense high rubble that serve as a barrier to the spreading flames.”
The vision of sweeping, unchecked flames abruptly halted Cecy’s pen. Could this actually happen?
“Pretty tricky business,” Linc muttered.
“You can say that again.” Sullivan’s face flushed with irritation; his voice grew more gruff. “If it isn’t done right, the explosives just provide more fuel for the fire. Spreads the fire. But when I ask for money to bring in professionals to train my men, all I get are excuses. No money. They’re fools, every last one of them. Fools.”
Linc pulled away from curb. “What did you think?”
“I think the people of San Francisco should be told what their fire chief needs for their protection.” She spoke with a passion that startled her. The images of an earthquake and flames had fired her imagination. “I can’t believe the municipal government won’t give him the money he needs.”
Linc grinned. “See I told you, you have what it takes to be a journalist.”
“I may care about the issue, but that doesn’t mean I can write about it.” She doubted her sketchy notes would be sufficient.
“Writing is something you can learn. Caring about inequities and abuses of power and wanting them to change for the better can’t be taught. That must come from the heart.” He smiled at her.
His approval warmed her. But why did she want, need his approval? Everyone she’d ever trusted had let her down. Everyone, except perhaps Millie Anderson.
Her mother said her former nanny had insisted on traveling with her to Boston, but father had dismissed her and hired a new nurse to take Cecy across country to Boston. Her father’s need to isolate her from anyone who loved her didn’t make sense. What could Cecy have done at such a tender age to make him hate her?
Hesitantly, Cecy glanced at Linc. “My mother would like to locate someone.”
“Who?”
“My old nanny Millie Anderson. How does one locate a person?”
Linc swerved to miss a startled horse. The hack driver shook his fist at them. “Often employment agencies keep track of people throughout their many job changes. And we can always advertise in the classifieds.”
“My mother wants to see her again.” Just as I do. Perhaps Millie could answer questions from the past, save Cecy from chasing after answers on her own.
Linc drove up to Cecy’s house. “In a couple of days, we’ll tour a cannery. I told the manager we just wanted to do a story about how a cannery works. But really it will be a story about working conditions there.”
“I see.” Cecy dreaded going back to face her mother. Not being able to ask her mother all the questions she needed answers to made finding Millie even more pressing.
Linc parked and came over to help her out of the auto. Feeling warm, she unbuttoned her coat while the butler let them in the front door.
The butler smiled. “Miss, your mother and the nurse are in the conservatory with Susan, the child, and kittens.”
Cecy and Linc walked to the conservatory. Susan, Meg, and Florence were teasing Missy and Meg’s kittens with a ball of blue angora yarn. Linc looked around. “Where’s Del?”
Susan frowned. “When we were ready to catch the cable car, I couldn’t find that boy.”
Had there been more trouble with Del? Cecy nearly asked, but the butler appeared, announcing a call for her. Cecy stepped to the phone and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Cecilia Jackson?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Clarissa Hunt calling.”
The new combination of names jumbled in Cecy’s mind. “Clarissa Hunt?”
“Mrs. Victor Hunt. Victor and I just r
eturned from our elopement.”
“You eloped with Hunt?” A weakness snaked through Cecy. She clutched the telephone table.
“Yes, now you know he loved me, not you,” the woman gloated. “He was just pursuing you to give his father a hard time. Victor didn’t like being told whom to marry.”
Clarissa believed that drivel? “He stabbed your brother because of his pride?”
“Victor would never hurt my brother. You pushed between them. You’re the one responsible.”
I didn’t bring the knife. Every bad thing she’d learned about Hunt rushed through Cecy’s mind. This woman was in danger of suffering like Cecy’s own mother. “Clarissa—”
“I just wanted to tell you myself, go back East—”
Cecy broke into the stream of spiteful words. “Clarissa, if you ever need help, call on me, please.”
“What? I’ve married the man I love and who loves me. Just stay away from my husband.”
Cecy’s anger flared. “Isn’t he too much in love with you to be tempted by me?”
Clarissa slammed down the receiver in Cecy’s ear.
Cecy hung up slowly.
“Who was that?” Linc asked.
“A fool, a stupid little fool.”
Cecilia’s crushed expression brought Linc to her side. He took her arm, walking her to the cover of the lush green plants and tall, potted trees. “Who was it?”
“Mrs. Victor Hunt.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Clarissa Hunt called; she’s married to the man she loves. And she said I should leave town.” She turned her face away.
He tugged her closer. Her vulnerability drew him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, run his fingers through her feathery-soft hair. No.
She turned back to him. “Linc, nothing will change what has happened—”
His hand pressed her soft lips together, stopping her words. Then his hand slid over her smooth skin to cup her cheek. “I’ll lead you into the future.”
She leaned into his shirtfront. “I have no future.”
“I’ll show you you’re wrong.” Don’t kiss her. But his lips refused to obey him. Leaning down, he kissed her fragrant, auburn hair.