by Jo Robertson
Malachi left the cell moments later to insure a warm meal and additional bedding were delivered to Alma. When he returned some fifteen minutes later, Emma had already said goodbye and left the girl alone in her cell.
He arranged the extra blankets at the end of the cot while Streetman set a food tray on the chair and balanced a water pitcher on the wash stand. Malachi waited until Streetman had gone before he instructed his client on her possible testimony next week.
"Don't worry, Mr. Knight," she said.
"Oh, I don't, Alma. I know you'll perform well if you are called on to testify."
"That warn't what I meant, Mr. Rivers." She gave him a pitying smile. "I think she likes you too."
"What? Who?"
"Miz Knight. She likes you too," Alma repeated. Her thin face glowed with the surety of someone who'd loved before.
"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered. "Miss Knight and I can scarcely stand one another."
Chapter 18
"A thousand times the worse, to want thy light." – Romeo and Juliet
Crude as it was, Malachi never apologized for his home. He'd built it himself at the age of thirteen with his father's somewhat inept and drunken help. Large even then, he'd learned the tools of carpentry through trial and error, mistake after mistake, too proud to ask for the help of any townspeople.
Too embarrassed to let anyone witness the extent of his father's debauchery and violence.
It had been a labor of arrogance, determination, and pure orneriness. He'd intended to show his father that he and his mother had little need for such a poor excuse of a man as Matthias Rivers.
The cabin stood several decades later, rough, rude, and humble, but a stubborn reminder of what Malachi had risen above. Or what he thought he'd risen above. Now he looked around the single room, taking in each meager detail of modest furniture and plain furnishings.
Preferring the wooden shutters he'd fixed to the windows, he'd left them without curtains. The undecorated shelves contained neat rows of canned tins and sacks of staples. From his position where he relaxed in the large wooden tub of hot water, he examined the oversized bed – his only concession to comfort – tucked behind a drape fastened to the ceiling's beam. The rude dresser and wash stand in the corner were mirrors of Alma Bentley's humble cell furniture.
His sense of self-sufficiency continued to work on him, so he remained here where his mother had lived out the remaining years of her too-young life and his father had drunk himself to death. Even though Malachi could easily afford a mansion to rival Emma's home across the way.
He leaned back in the wooden tub and soaked in the steamy bath. The shutters were closed for privacy, but the dim light of dusk filtered through the heavy growth of trees around the cabin. He sighed and reached for the soap, intending to scrub every care from his muscles.
Moments later the knock at the door, hardly more than the tapping of fingernails on wood, alerted him. Damn, here he was ass-deep in a hot bath, intending to ease the weariness from his bones and he had a visitor.
Digging his grandfather's pocket watch from his pants lying on the floor, he studied the time while listening for the sound again. He'd nearly convinced himself he was mistaken when the rapping sounded again, this time markedly louder.
Still, he ignored it until the banging began. Who else but she would be brass enough to call on him without warning?
Reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his body, he stepped out of the tub, splashing water on the wooden floor. Damn. There was a mess he'd have to clean up. He walked across the smooth planks in his bare feet and swung open the door to the cabin.
A wind chilled his damp flesh and though he'd half expected her, the shock of Emma Knight on his porch tingled his entire body and his mind grew cold.
Wrapped in a heavy cloak from head to ankle, boots on her feet and a trimmed cap pulled down over her ears, she blew impatient wisps of white puffy air out of her mouth. Her pink-tinged nose and cheeks darkened as he gazed at her.
She shuffled from foot to foot, rubbing her gloved hands together. Small wonder. Winter had crept suddenly into northern California, not the usual rain, but a cold storm that layered in and dropped the temperature in the foothills.
Belatedly, his thoughts unthawed and the cold registered as his damp skin weathered the breeze blowing through the open door. "Emma, why in Christ's name are you here?"
She raked her eyes over his scantily clad body, a flicker of annoyance in her dark eyes. He had a good mind to drop the towel and wipe that haughty look from her face.
"Well," she huffed, "aren't you gentleman enough to invite me in, Malachi Rivers? I'm freezing my ... nose off out here on your porch."
He eyed her warily before swinging the door wider and gesturing for her to come in with a wide sweep of his hand. "Ah, Princess Emma, welcome to my humble abode."
She scowled at him. "I hate when you do that."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Do what, precisely?"
"Mock me." Emma moved across the floor, her boots clacking loudly in the sparsely-furnished room as she looked around with interest at the surroundings, her back toward him.
A moment later she dropped the cloak, and all hell broke loose in his mind.
She wore nothing at all beneath the coat and stood in the center of his humble cabin wearing only boots and a ridiculous hat covering her glorious curls. Not a stitch covered the curls beneath her waist.
Malachi turned quickly, aware that the tenting of his towel might cause it to drop of its own accord. That would surely shake her aplomb. He reached for his trousers, dropped the towel and stepped into them, aware as he did so that he gave her a full view of his bare backside.
It couldn't be helped. What the hell was the chit up to now? Fastening his pants, he turned to face her. "Put the coat back on, Emma," he instructed as calmly as he could.
Her look of hauteur was followed by an uncertainty that nearly undid him, but he girded up his determination. "This is a very bad idea."
"I – I thought about ... before."
He began shaking his head while she continued a clearly rehearsed speech. "I want – I want to try again. I – I didn't realize how ... momentous such a – an act was and I wasn't prepared the last time you and I – we ..."
What was an ordinary man to do? Did Emma understand how hard a refusal was to such an offer? She stood splendidly naked in front of him. The supreme irony of her feet and head covered while the rest of her remained bare was not lost on him. She'd cleverly covered what some cultures held were the most sensuous parts of the female body – her slender feet and riotous hair.
Steeling himself against her allure, he warned her, his voice less stern than his cock. "We're not going to have a repeat performance of the other night's debacle."
He watched her lovely face falter and deflate. He bent to pick up her discarded cloak, wrapping it gently around her shoulders. She clutched the edges together but not before he witnessed a rich pink color diffuse her flesh.
He stepped back as if burned, then gentled his voice. "You understand we cannot behave so irresponsibly while we work together, Emma. I'm sorry if I led you to believe otherwise."
She tilted her chin and focused on a spot beside his ear. "Of course not. However, you should know I am not so fragile that I would break under the duress of having ... sexual congress with you. You mustn't think me so unsturdy."
"Emma," he whispered, drawing her close and pulling off the cap. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair before holding her at arm's length, but she would not look into his eyes until he lifted her chin. "You can scarcely utter the word 'sex.' How will you be able to engage in the activity itself?"
"But we already have," she protested.
He blew out a harsh breath at the reminder of how he'd used her so carelessly. "Yes, but that wasn't pleasurable for you. And I won't repeat the experience until you are able to enjoy it also."
Understanding flooded her eyes. "Then you agree that after the tr
ial ... " She let the words dangle there like a hangman's noose while he wondered how he'd stepped so readily and easily into the snare.
He was still wondering several long minutes after she'd quietly left the cabin and he heard the sure step of her boots on the winter leaves and twigs.
#
After the brisk walk back to her house, during which she'd relived the embarrassing, but hopeful event of the early evening, Emma was eager to soak her weary limbs in a hot, scented bath. She wanted to think about the case, of course ... and Malachi. What they'd done. And more importantly, what they hadn't done.
She heard the sound of her parents' carriage as she ascended the stairs and her mood altered instantly. She hastily dressed and smoothed her hair as neatly as possible. When she reached the bottom step again, Sarah had already opened the front door.
What now, Emma wondered, as a chill of fear walked icy fingers up her spine.
She should have been prepared for the unannounced assault of her parents on her home. They'd never before backed down when they wanted her cooperation and this time was sure to be no exception.
Now, instead, both parents preceded her into the parlor, armed with argument and clearly prepared to do battle.
"Don't worry," she said to Sarah, noticing the troubled look on her face.
The older woman had been with the Knights for many years, first as a young maid for the newly married couple and later as nurse to baby Emma. Fiercely protective of her charge, she'd been a welcome buffer between the outspoken and oft misguided young Emma and her stern and straight-laced parents.
When Emma purchased her own home, Sarah had left the elderly Knights' employ without hesitation. Emma suspected her parents would never forgive the betrayal.
She gave Sarah a quick hug. "I'll handle them. I should be used to Mama and Papa's officiousness by now." She barely suppressed a groan. "Prepare tea for the three of us, please."
Her shoulders set, she marched off to the parlor to face the inevitable parental disapprobation. Her father's glare as he stood to watch her enter the parlor banished all hope of cordial or friendly intercourse.
"Mother." She nodded toward the sofa where her mother perched at the edge, her spine as straight as a ruler, her gloved hands resting on her lap, and her face a calm slate of disaffection.
"Father, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Emma complimented herself on the lack of rancor in her voice.
She seated herself in the dark blue striped wing chair by the windows, but her father remained standing. She understood the ploy the moment her hips touched the chair cushion. He liked using his height to cow her, to make her feel his superiority as he loomed over her defenseless female form.
She jumped to her feet and walked to the archway, leaning against the jamb while she regained her composure. At that moment Sarah entered with the tea tray and deposited it on the table near her mother with a disapproving clatter.
Mrs. Knight flashed the older woman a look of pure hatred. Emma had never understood why her mother held such contempt for Sarah Ralston.
When she was younger, she'd believed her mother was jealous of the affection the young Emma had for Sarah, but she later realized her mother was completely incapable of any deep emotion. Envy of Sarah implied that Mary Elizabeth Knight held some kind of maternal interest in her daughter.
Emma knew that assumption was a grave misconception.
Her father moved closer, his body rigid with disapproval. Emma was hardly surprised. Very little of her behavior pleased her father. She didn't imagine he'd been happy with her decision to live alone as a single woman, nor that he'd rejoiced over her partnership with her uncle.
Papa started in first. "You must cease this foolishness immediately, Emma. You're ruining the family name."
"What foolishness is that, Father?"
"Don't play coy with me, girl. You must turn the business of the newspaper back to Stephen immediately."
Emma shrugged as if her father's words hadn't cut like a samurai's blade through the chambers of her heart. Or as if the three of them hadn't already broached this subject ad nauseum. "Stephen is running the paper during the course of the trial. And he's agreed to ... subsidize my finances until I'm of age for my inheritance."
She swept back her hair impatiently. "Anyway, what has changed to cause your sense of immediacy?"
Her parents exchanged a meaningful glance.
"Beginning tomorrow, the details of the trial will become ugly," her father conceded.
Emma looked from one of them to the other. How were they privy to court affairs? "How do you know this?" She heard the sharp edge to her voice but didn't care. "Where have you gotten such privileged information?"
"You've been many things, Emma, but never dull-witted. Don't be stupid now," her father said. "I have friends."
"Charles Fulton," Emma said flatly. "How dare he breach ethics by discussing the case with the two of you!"
Her mother rose and advanced a single step toward her daughter, but stopped and narrowed her eyes as if she were unable to fathom how she'd birthed such a recalcitrant child. "You must cease assisting Mr. Rivers with the murder case."
Emma merely arched one brow and returned the hard look in her mother's eyes.
"You must see how unseemly your behavior is, consorting with a single man like Mr. Rivers!" her mother hissed. "You're behaving like a wanton, and when the trial gets ugly, your reputation will be in tatters."
Emma forced a small laugh past her stiff lips. Why did her parents' words hurt after all these years? She ought to be accustomed to their low opinion of her. "I thought by now you were used to my unseemly behavior, Mother."
Her mother flounced about, turned her back on Emma, and stared out the wide expanse of windows. "It's your brother's fault." She tossed the words over her shoulder toward her husband. "He and his ... unnatural ways will ruin us!"
What was her mother talking about?
"Shut up, Mary." Her father scarcely raised his voice, yet her mother's protest died on her lips.
"What does Mama mean?"
"Nothing. She means absolutely nothing." Her father glared at his wife's back. "How Stephen behaves in his private life has nothing to do with us."
A fierce protectiveness for her uncle surged through Emma. "If there's something about Uncle Stephen I need to know – "
"Drop it, Emma!" Her father's command barked so loudly Emma retreated a step into the foyer. She'd never seen him so coldly angry, so deadly ferocious. His lips thinned over his teeth like a predator.
Then the façade suddenly fell away and Emma glimpsed the tired old man behind the dictator. She almost felt pity for him as he strode by her to where Sarah stood quietly, extending his hat and overcoat.
"Mother?"
Mary Knight shook her head as if she couldn't or wouldn't answer. They heard the loud smack of the entry door slamming shut.
Emma clasped her mother's forearms and gave her a small shake. "What's going on? What about Stephen?"
Her mother's face turned an ugly purple hue, her features distorted as she spat out her answer. "For a smart girl, you're incredibly dim, Emma," she said with a vicious tug of her arm. "Stephen likes men. Men!" Her voice rose shrilly. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"
"What?"
"Stephen likes to screw young men. And Charles Fulton will make that information public." Spittle formed at the edges of her mother's lips and her snarl sounded like a rabid dog. "Are you satisfied now?" she hissed.
Long after her mother and father made their abrupt departure with the startling news about the younger Knight sibling, Emma sat at her dresser, staring at herself in the mirror. Of course, shocking as the news was, it didn't change her affection for her uncle. She knew nothing at all about the physical relations of men who had such ... proclivities, but she trusted and loved her uncle far more than her own parents.
She mulled the issue over and over as she lay tossing in her bed an hour later. It appeared that no one trusted her
. Stephen. Malachi. Alma. They'd all kept secrets from her and by doing so demonstrated their lack of confidence in her.
Feeling frustrated that she couldn't think of anything to directly help Alma, she rose and escaped to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk. Perhaps, if she couldn't sufficiently aid Alma's case, Emma might better understand the girl on trial for her life.
Malachi had said Emma ought to go to the river, to see how those other women lived. How Alma had been reared. Where she'd grown up, where her mother had scraped to keep body and soul together for herself and her small daughter. Earlier today before Malachi had returned, the girl had finally spoken of her mother who, Emma gathered, occupied a shanty on the river.
She jumped up from bed and rummaged for clothing, a sudden determination in her movements. Nothing too fine or obvious. Finding the right garments, she tossed on her clothes. The house was silent as she made her way downstairs. Empty, for Sarah and Ralston had long ago retired to their own cottage.
Emma saddled up Old Stripling and started toward town. At this hour of night, all the lights were dimmed and few people were about. She opened up The Gazette office and used the recently installed candlestick telephone device to summon a hansom cab.
She'd go to the Sacramento docks to see for herself what surroundings had shaped the woman who'd murdered her lover.
Chapter 19
“Screw your courage to the sticking place.” – Macbeth
Emma peered at the scrap of paper in her hand and then glanced up at the dilapidated wooden structure in front of her. Number Six Firehouse Alley, a narrow, rutted path behind a row of commercial businesses that ran parallel to the Sacramento River. Signs of poverty and decay clung to the structure and its outbuildings like mold.
The stench of outdoor privies and the smell of liquor and stale bodies assaulted her nostrils. She clapped a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. Taking a deep breath, she marched determinedly up several broken steps to a front door partially unhinged. The sounds of grunting and flesh slapping against flesh emanated from behind the door.