Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  The dragon looked as though she'd dart a fiery flame at Malachi, but instead sent cold, hard daggers from her pale eyes. Finally, she narrowed her eyes and responded with false sweetness and specious hospitality. "Of course, your friend is invited."

  Ah, Emma, he thought, foolish to bluff with a poor hand. He grinned unabashedly at the two of them. This Saturday afternoon turned out to be far more interesting than he'd expected when he began working this morning. He was intrigued to observe Emma in her familial setting. Sunday dinner with the correct and formal Knights should prove stimulating.

  As she spun away, the dragon lady glared at him one final time as if he'd cajoled a coveted seat at her dining room table.

  Clearly her mother's agreement had not been Emma's plan. Her face wilted like a fading flower.

  The sight of Mrs. Knight's back retreating from the dismal interior of the newspaper office had all the sweet relief of a prisoner's pardon.

  #

  Sunday was a hell of Emma's own making.

  At precisely three-thirty in the afternoon, Malachi Rivers rapped on her front door, a buggy whip in one hand. As usual, his head was unadorned.

  She glared at him. "What are you doing here? It's not yet four." Her voice squeaked like a skittish parlor maid, so she clamped down hard on her lip, scowled at him again, and swung the door ajar ungraciously.

  "And why do you never wear a hat?" she grumbled, her lips set in a tight line.

  Damn, she'd planned to arrive alone at her parents' home to have a word with them before Mr. Rivers arrived. She wanted to avoid another parental confrontation with him as audience. But now there'd be no chance to speak with them.

  And on top of all that, the incorrigible man looked like a common workman from the streets!

  He grinned and ruffled his palm across his head, apparently unconcerned that he'd mussed up what little style it had. "Aren't we having dinner with your parents?"

  The look of feigned surprise on his face shoved her irritation over the precipice. "Oh, stop this pretence!"

  She reached for her own wide-brimmed, plumed hat and arranged it on top of her curls, jamming it in place, then flounced out the door. He trailed her to stand on the porch landing where his horse and carriage waited in the turnabout.

  "I invited you to dinner merely to annoy my mother." She slanted him a sharp look through her lashes. "But you knew that already."

  In response he clasped a hand over his heart as if mortally injured and groaned a sad, little sound, full of pretended wounding. He maintained his jovial playacting all the way to the carriage where he lifted her onto the high seat.

  They were on their way immediately, the silence unbroken between them for several miles. The well-sprung carriage jostled along, the moveable hood of the bellows top folded back to allow a slight breeze in the weather that was fast giving way to a brisk fall. The seats were plush leather and the horses two fine steeds, much more lively than the horses that drew her own vehicle.

  Perhaps Mr. Rivers' pockets were deeper than she supposed.

  Clearing his throat, he finally broke the quiet whirr of the rumbling wheels on the dirt road. Surely he wasn't nervous about being alone with her. Perhaps he anticipated the imminent conflict with her parents.

  Finally when he spoke, the tone of his voice, deep and quiet as the surrounding woods, soothed her. "Satisfy my curiosity, Emma Knight."

  "What curiosity is that, Mr. Rivers?"

  "Malachi," he corrected her."

  A tiny smile played around the full lips that she had a difficult time keeping her eyes from straying to. Gentlemen should not have mouths that begged to be devoured. No, by the expression in those blue eyes and the amused contour of those firm-looking lips, he was not nervous at all.

  While he continued, her mind contemplated the tiny laugh lines around his eyes. "What family business do you suppose your parents have in mind that they're willing to invite me – a complete stranger – to insure their daughter's attendance at dinner?"

  Emma looked away, sighed deeply, and fingered the lace of her high-necked gown. "I have no idea, but I imagine they'll engage in the usual litany."

  He turned toward her, his bright blue eyes unreadable. "What is their 'usual litany'"?

  "Their disappointment in me."

  Rivers hesitated and then laughed, a rich sound that drew her eyes to the strong, dark column of his throat. "I can hardly believe that."

  She examined him closely before gazing at the trees passing by on either side of the buggy as the horses picked up speed. Was he funning with her again?

  "My parents consider me too headstrong, too stubborn, and by far too independent, which is their greatest complaint about me." She added with a nonchalant shrug, "I'm hardly the daughter they had in mind when they engaged in their single act of procreation."

  This time Malachi choked on a great belly laugh. Christ, what unfiltered remarks she made! When he caught his breath at last, he grinned broadly, very much liking this new Emma. He tightened his grip on the reins. "What makes you so sure they've, uh, engaged in only that single act?"

  "Surely you're joking," she mocked. "Neither of them has a thread of passion running through their blood. Sometimes I'm quite sure they aren't my true parents."

  The slight curve of his lips remained, but he suppressed blatant guffawing. "How did you come to learn so much about this 'true passion?'"

  Emma blinked several times, drew herself up, and squared her shoulders as she eyed him suspiciously. Mr. Rivers had a way of layering an innocuous conversation with underlying meaning. "I've been away from home four years, to college at Wellesley, where I learned a great many things about the world."

  His blue eyes were deep with humor as he examined her from the wildly colorful hat to her fine calf slippers. "Yes, I imagine so."

  She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "You might be surprised to know that I had quite a liberal education there."

  "Hmmmm."

  The tone of that monosyllable caused her to glance curiously in his direction.

  "Well, you are independent," he conceded in a neutral voice. "That's true enough."

  She angled her body to the side, suddenly eager to be rid of this frivolous banter. Making him understand her seemed very important at the moment.

  "Yes, and while some of their concerns about me may be true, their disgruntlement runs deeper than surface worries. They want me to be ... " She waved her hands helplessly in the air. "Dependent on them. And after that, dependent upon a man they consider worthy of the privilege of marrying me."

  The words left an acrid taste on her tongue.

  He lifted both dark brows, the surprise in his voice genuine. "You don't wish to marry?"

  "No – yes – perhaps." She shook her head, confused by a yearning she couldn't define, an emotion that heightened whenever she sparred with Malachi Rivers. A brief image of marriage to him flitted through her mind. Disconcerted, she pushed it away.

  Malachi stared at her as if she'd sprouted horns. "But what about that 'true passion' you say your parents lack? Don't you want that for yourself?"

  "Of course!" She jiggled her foot while seeking the right words. "But there are other ... ways to explore that avenue without marriage." She blew her breath out on an exasperated sigh. "The point is I want to do something important with my life first. I want a relationship with a man, of course, but – "

  "Not necessarily marriage," he finished for her. "I see." He was silent for another several miles during which Emma wondered if perhaps he really did understand her position. And wouldn't that be strange?

  At last they turned down the road that led to her parents' palatial home on the American River. Malachi leapt from the carriage and handed her down from the buggy, holding her gloved hand a moment longer than necessary.

  When she looked up into his eyes, he added a final comment, his face a sheet of candor that made her believe they'd reached a momentary understanding. "Well, we must all hope that the '
important something' you wish to do with your life is more significant than ladies' fashions and tea parties."

  At first she believed he was teasing her again, but the clear approbation in his voice convinced her otherwise. Was he challenging her, she wondered, as he escorted her to the front door? Her fingers still tingled from his touch and she hid a smile beneath the wide brim of her hat.

  Malachi Rivers was a compelling man.

  Chapter 8

  "O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!"

  – Much Ado About Nothing

  Unfortunately, the rest of the Sabbath spiraled downward from the moment they crossed the threshold into the Knight family mansion.

  "Miss Emma." Horace intoned the salutation as if it were a royal proclamation. "Mr. Rivers, may I take your ha— ?" The dour-faced butler stuttered to a halt, perhaps the only time Emma had ever seen the man flummoxed.

  Emma's father greeted them from the edge of the spacious marble-floored foyer, his posture military straight. He wore a handsomely-fitted black tail coat and trousers with a white waistcoat and bow tie above a stiff winged-collar shirt.

  Her father nodded toward his only child, hardly more than a bending of the neck a fraction of an inch. "Emma," he said, "You look pale."

  Emma refrained from casting her eyes heavenward and made do with placing a brief kiss on her father's dry cheek, a demonstration of affection insured to irritate him further. "Father, you look ... quite healthy."

  Franklin Knight shot his cuffs one at a time, displaying discrete diamond links in a subtle demonstration of his position as one of the wealthiest farmers in the San Joaquin Valley. "You're late," he said before turning on his heel and preceding his guests into the formal sitting room to the right of the foyer.

  Emma refused to scurry after him. She took her time handing Horace her outer attire, all the while aware of their guest's silent questions, apparent in the lift of a single brow.

  "Mother." Emma gestured toward Rivers. Her mother sat on a Hepplewhite chair, her blue gown bright against the shield-shaped chair back. "You remember Mr. Rivers."

  "Of course. Do sit down, please. Would you like a drink? Brandy?"

  Her father stood behind her mother, his face a flat mask of disinterest.

  Emma took a seat angled toward her mother on a rococo arm chair upholstered in an intricate rich blue design that nearly matched Mr. Ri – Malachi's eyes. He took the matching chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  He glanced around the room, no doubt taking in the opulence that she'd grown up amid. "No, thank you, ma'am," he drawled, the words drawn out like a nineteenth-century cowboy.

  Emma darted him a cautionary look. "Father, Mr. Rivers has his law office in Placer Hills quite near the courthouse."

  Father nodded, his eyes narrowing at the casual slouch of Malachi on the elegant chair.

  "Papa owns properties and businesses to the north as well as the farmland to the south of us," Emma said. More wealth than any single person ought to possess, she thought.

  "Really?" That familiar, amused smile played around Malachi's lips, as if he were privy to a joke that none of them understood. "How fortunate for you."

  Although the words were spoken to her father, Malachi's eyes trailed to Emma, nearly accusatory in their piercing stare. She willed herself not to squirm and set her jaw tightly, lifting her chin. How dare he judge her!

  It wasn't her fault her father was so damned rich.

  Within fifteen minutes of the introductions and casual preliminary conversation, her mother rang the bell for the serving of dinner. By the time they'd entered the formal dining room, the serving girls stood at either end of the table, their starched aprons sparkling against their black uniforms.

  As usual Papa occupied his chair at the far end of the heavy oak table as if he were a captain at the helm of his ship. Mama sat at the opposite end, erect and regal as any queen, and in the long space between them Emma stared into the enigmatic face of Mr. Rivers opposite her.

  Thank God, Stephen who'd arrived late, sat to her left, nearest her father. His presence alone made the ordeal bearable.

  The hurried, but efficient movements of the two serving girls occupied the silence as they produced each dinner course. And then began the test of patience as her mother's admonitions screeched like a thousand violins in Emma's ears.

  "Jenny, not there, careful with the tureen!

  "Margaret, must you spill, clumsy girl!

  "The silver service is out of order. Again."

  Mama closed her eyes briefly as if invoking heavenly intercession for the misfortunate of having such incompetent servants.

  "Sorry, mum," murmured Jenny, her voice quavering, although Mama had curtailed her criticism by half.

  Emma smiled at the two girls, hardly more than children, and flashed back with unerring clarity to being eight years old again in this house, condemned to the nightly prison of the family dining experience and her mother's railing.

  "Thank you, Margaret," Emma murmured as the girl ladled soup into her bowl.

  She felt the tightness of her flesh against her cheekbones and bit her lip. Glancing up, she intercepted the shifting mood on Mr. Rivers' face – from amusement to puzzlement and then sad understanding.

  Any moment now, Papa would begin chastising Mama in his hard, cold voice. No, it wasn't funny at all, this farce of a marriage between the two persons who'd given birth to her. But she would not have Mr. Rivers' pity. She dipped her spoon into the bowl and glared at him, silently daring him to feel sorry for her.

  "Mr. Rivers," Mama asked during the main course, "would you like more lamb? Jenny," she ordered, "don't keep our guest waiting."

  "No, thank you, ma'am," he answered quietly. "But the dinner is delicious."

  "Well, Cook is sufficient, and the service adequate at best," Mama complained. "But what can one expect here in the west. It's hardly like Boston or New York, now is it?"

  "Mary," Papa corrected her, clear criticism in his voice low, steely, "Margaret and Jenny will perform according to your expectations. You are not firm enough with them."

  Stephen coughed quietly and then changed the subject, heading off the inevitable lecture. Her uncle was well used to the dinner habits of her family. "Frank, Mr. Rivers is the defense attorney on the Bentley case. Have you been following the trial?"

  Papa's answer was long in coming as he paused to lower his fork. "I have better things to do with my time, Stephen, than wallow in such tawdry events." He drank his wine thoughtfully. "But I understand that my good friend Charles Fulton is conducting a superior prosecution."

  Emma's eyes fluttered to Malachi's face as she felt outrage on his behalf. But he merely wore the dangerous look she'd learned was prelude to a salty retort. If she'd thought to ameliorate the rancor of her parents by inviting him, she'd been mistaken.

  She braced herself for a volcanic reaction.

  Malachi turned to his right to gaze directly at her father, curling his lip in what could've been the prelude to a snarl. "Really, sir? You are friends with Charlie?"

  "Charles," Papa corrected with a frown. "Yes, I am, and a finer district attorney the county has never seen."

  Malachi began shaking his head, the smile still hovering around his full lips, but not quite reaching his cold blue eyes. Did Papa realize that their guest was mocking him?

  "Oh, yes, old Charlie has managed to acquire quite a number of petty convictions," Malachi said.

  Papa gagged as if his neck cloth were choking him. "Petty convictions? Explain what you mean, sir!"

  "Oh, nothing much except that Charlie's last ten convictions were women arrested for panhandling, solicitation, and petty theft."

  Malachi took a long draught of wine and continued while her father dropped his jaw in disbelief. "I believe the theft was for a loaf of bread to feed the woman's children. All ten perpetrators received significant jail sentences."

  "As well the
y should," Mother interrupted, signaling for Margaret to pour more wine in everyone's glass. "We cannot allow this kind of criminal to run wild about our community."

  Malachi laughed softly, but without humor. "Hardly criminal, madam." He smiled, wiped his mouth, and placed his dinner napkin on the table. "Well, at any rate, they're fed and clothed while incarcerated, which is more than they could expect living on the streets."

  Emma's hands had gone clammy and her cheeks felt as though they were leached of all color. "A mother? Are you saying the district attorney charged a mother with stealing food for her children?"

  "Now, Emma, don't get emotional," her father warned. "You know how easily you let your heart rule your head."

  "But what about the children?" Emma asked.

  Malachi shrugged casually enough, but Emma could see the tight set of his jaw and the distended veins of his neck. "The foundling home, one supposes."

  "Come now, Rivers," Papa said, glancing toward Stephen for support. "It's hardly Fulton's problem that the children's mothers engage in illegal activities."

  Her uncle remained mute, eyeing Malachi carefully.

  "After all, he is the elected officer of the people," Papa continued.

  "Charles Fulton won the election as Bigler County District Attorney with the backing of wealthy citizens in our fair town," Malachi retorted. "He caters to their whims and prosecutes cases against the poorest element of society while he's lenient with the rich."

  He edged his chair back as if ready to fight and sounded as though he'd reached the end of his tether. As if he'd spouted the speech many times before.

  "However, you sir," her father answered, standing and throwing his napkin on top of his serving plate. "You cater to the meanest element of society, the dregs of our community who would blight the very countryside with their slovenliness and crime. A country that we built on hard labor."

  Malachi's face twisted in scorn. "Perhaps with hard labor, Mr. Knight, but not your labor."

  Emma's hands shook as if gripped by a serious palsy and she rose quickly to ward off the imminent calamity. "Mother, Father," she nodded to each in turn. "I'm feeling unwell. Please excuse us. Mr. Rivers and I shall leave now."