Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  Anger propelled her forward. That Alma was reared in such surroundings horrified her. That such conditions existed a mere mile from the state capitol building appalled her. That she, Emma, had grown up a few miles north of here, swaddled in velvet and taffeta from the moment of her birth, wrenched her with remorse.

  She rapped sharply and paused a moment for a response before pounding her fist against the faded wood. No one answered her banging, but the noises of copulation ceased.

  She raised her fist to batter the door again when at last it jerked open and a half-clad woman stood in the frame, her yellow hair jutting from her head like straw from a bale of hay. Her large bosom heaved with exertion and her chemise dipped low to reveal one large brown nipple.

  "Wacha want, hon? I gotta customer here."

  The woman's fleshy face was scarlet with rouge and rough with bruising, her feet were bare beneath drawers, and her high forehead was lined with more years than her likely age. Emma realized this creature was Alma's mother. The similarity of their features was unmistakable.

  "Mrs. Bentley?"

  The woman peered at her as though trying for recognition. "What's it to you, sister?"

  "I – I ..." Emma's tongue was thick in her mouth, her brain numb in her head.

  The heavily-painted dark eyes raked over Emma's figure in a calculating manner. "If you're lookin' for work, honey, see Johnny over at the tavern." She jerked her head in a direction behind her. "You look a little scrawny to me, but some of these fellas like 'em without much meat on their bones."

  She laughed and turned away, slamming the door shut behind her. Emma stared at the spot where the woman had stood until she heard the resumption of the sounds that had greeted her earlier. This time loud groans and louder cries of passion accompanied the wet, sucking noise of their coupling.

  Her cheeks aflame, her heart pounding with chagrin, she turned and hastily made her way down the dark alley to Waterfront Street where she'd asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for her. When she arrived at the appointed place, however, both the man and his cab were gone.

  Damn.

  She glanced around, noticing for the first time the unlighted streets and gloomy brick store fronts, dark at this hour of the night. The only sounds of life rose from the tavern on the corner of Waterfront Street, the establishment, she supposed, where she might obtain a job from the man named Johnny.

  She shuddered as the chill from the river whipped up with the advancing wind, a light mist fogging the streets. As she watched, a raucous group of men emerged from the tavern and ambled down the boardwalk, their boots ringing hollowly against the wooden slats. From the way they staggered and rabbled with one another, Emma knew they'd been drinking heavily.

  She turned and made her way back down the narrow alley, her footsteps quick and hurried. Instinct propelled her. Perhaps the men were harmless, but she didn't care to find out for sure. At the far end of the alley, she paused and looked around.

  Where could she go? Would Mrs. Bentley admit her? Not likely since the woman was far too occupied with her paying customer.

  When she reached the path's end, she turned left on the next street. Suddenly one of the men she'd observed coming from the tavern stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

  His hat was low on his forehead, hiding his face, but she could inhale the strong odor of spirits on his breath. Behind him stood one of his companions, a barrel-chested man of dark complexion whose passive expression shot a warning up her spine.

  They'd circled around the buildings to cut her off!

  She scuttled back the other way only to see two more of them entering the alley from that end.

  She was trapped!

  #

  Malachi knew from the look on Alma's face that she didn't realize where Emma had gone.

  "Damn it, Alma, why?"

  "She asked me," Alma said, her voice meek. "She wanted to know where I come from. You know, where my mam raised me."

  "And your mother is a prostitute, isn't that right?"

  The girl's face turned the color of a ripe tomato. "I didn't mean no harm, Mr. Rivers." Tears sprang to her eyes and trickled in dusty streams down her thin cheeks. "I didn't think she'd go there. Don't she know how dangerous that place is at night?"

  "Unfortunately, our foolish Miss Knight doesn't know the meaning of danger."

  "Huh?"

  That a woman should deliberately put herself in harm's way was apparently anathema to Alma. She'd been reared on the waterfront, bumped shoulders with all kinds of ruffians, but even Alma knew when to retreat into the relative safety of the indoors when night fell.

  "Sometimes very bright women are very silly, Alma," he explained.

  "Are you going after her, Mr. Rivers?"

  Malachi stared at Alma's pinched features. "Hmm, I suppose I shall have to rescue her."

  By his reckoning he was some thirty minutes or so behind Emma. He rode Bathsheba, the gray Arabian he purchased several months ago. He didn't like riding the mare so hard, but with every mile, he grew more concerned that Emma would come to harm wandering the streets where the influx of prospectors created a bawdy, rough group of men in Sacramento.

  When he arrived near the wharf, he hitched Bathsheba to a post outside a brick-fronted building and trod carefully over a cobble-stoned road until he arrived at the east end of the destination Alma had given him. The area was shrouded in darkness, but he detected noises coming from several taverns and brothels on Front Street. He paused to separate those distant sounds from ones nearer to the address he sought.

  Suddenly a scream pierced the dark night.

  #

  Emma remembered the lessons she'd learned while attending women's advocacy groups at Wellesley. She quickly jerked off one of her boots and held it up like a weapon. She regretted not carrying a knitting needle in her handbag as advised by her teachers, but the heel of her boot was sturdy and thick and the best she could do at the moment.

  The first man lurched toward her and she slammed the boot heel against his temple. "Oww, you stupid cow," he screeched, a thin trickle of blood filtering through his fingers.

  His friends laughed drunkenly from the opposite end of the alley. "Aye, she's a feisty one, Mikey-boy, likely she can handle all o' us."

  Emma swept the shoe back and forth between the two men approaching her from the Main Street end of the alley and glanced back at the two behind her, coming from Waterfront Street. The first man, hardly more than a boy she saw from the scarcity of his whiskers, jumped at her, grabbed her arm, and twisted it viciously. She swung at him and her hat flew off, her curls tumbling down from their loose knot.

  "An Irish lass, then she is," cried a third one.

  The fourth one, an older thug with a jutting brow and narrow, mean eyes, leaned against the brick wall as if the spectacle were some play which mildly amused him.

  After a moment of tussling with her, the young one jerked the shoe from her hand while the bleeding one thrust his face into hers, smearing his blood on her cheek. She smelled his stinking breath and nearly gagged. He grinned like a jackal as he suddenly placed a meaty hand at the top of her blouse and ripped it downward in one quick jerk. Two of the men held her arms behind her back while she kicked out in short jabs with her shod foot.

  "God's blood, look at them tits," the man called Mikey said. "Betcha the hair on her cunny's as lovely as this," he added gripping her hair in one hand and pulling back hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  "Bet she tastes real good too," said another, smacking thick, chapped lips.

  As she struggled against their iron grips, Emma realized how utterly foolish she'd been to venture here alone so late at night. She'd never been in this part of the capitol city and had assumed the hansom driver would remain when she'd plied him with several coins. She knew exactly what fate these men intended for her and knew she'd be fortunate if they didn't murder her after they assaulted her.

  Her legs became boneless and she nearly collaps
ed on the dirt ground. Bile rose sharp and acrid in her throat. If one of them touched a filthy mouth to hers, she'd vomit, she thought hysterically.

  "Let's take her to Johnny's place," the young one suggested. "Don't want no one to hear her scream." He leered at her and reached forth to twist her breast in his grubby hand.

  She winced, but refused to cry out even when the one leaning casually against the wall straightened and began to unbuckle his belt. "No need to wait," he said, his voice and face deadly composed as if he assaulted women in the ordinary course of his day. "Lift her skirts and let's see what she's got."

  Two of the men braced her against the wall while the third raised her skirts and tore off her drawers. The frigid air whipped around her bare thighs. She couldn't stop the tears now. They streamed down her face and she shut her eyes tightly so as not to see the dark stranger with the ugly eyes advancing toward her.

  The warning came from the north end of the alley, and the owner of the quiet, deadly voice was unmistakable. "That would be a serious mistake, my friend."

  Emma's eyes flew open and she wrenched from the two men who'd pinned her against the wall as they fell back in surprise.

  Her skirts bunched around her waist while she stumbled to the ground, feeling sharp pebbles dig into her palms. Malachi's eyes flickered once toward her, across her exposed breasts, and downward to the nakedness below her waist.

  Something primordial glinted in his narrowed eyes and even in the dimness of the alley she could read the wash of emotions playing across the hard planes of his cheeks. He was furious. At her or the animals who had cornered her, she couldn't tell.

  The ostensible leader swung slowly around, his unbuttoned trousers bothering him not in the least apparently, for his movements were as stealthy and lethal as a panther. "We ain't your friends, mister, and you'd do well to walk away from what's not your concern."

  White teeth flashed in the dark background of Malachi's face, but no humor showed in his eyes. "Ah, but this is very much my business," he said, smiling dangerously. "The woman belongs to me."

  Emma bristled under the implied ownership, but she caught a look from Malachi and quickly suppressed her objections. Four against one were not good odds and she couldn't be sure he had armed himself. That matter was quickly settled when he removed a pistol from inside his jacket and brandished it negligently at his side.

  Long moments passed while the leader appeared to consider the threat of the man holding the daunting weapon. At last he grinned and raised his shoulders in a Gaelic shrug. "Perhaps you should keep your woman under closer guard, my friend."

  Edging backwards, the four men reached the street and turned quickly around the corner, their boots clacking loudly on the wooden sidewalk as they moved toward the river.

  "Jesus, Emma, what idiocy have you gotten up to now?"

  #

  Malachi prepared to give Emma a berating the likes of which she'd never seen. Hurtling off willy-nilly into the most dangerous section of the city, telling no one where she'd gone, taking no protection. And where the hell was her cab?

  But one look into her pale face, a ghostly hue against the frame of her russet hair tumbling raggedly about her shoulders, and he swallowed the words in his throat. "Jesus, Emma," he repeated softly, removing his greatcoat and draping it about her exposed breasts and torn garments.

  He pulled her dress down, and she winced even though his touch was deliberately gentle. "Christ."

  Her slender body shook, but her eyes, wide and dark in the dim light, remained dry. She was likely going into shock. "Jesus," he said once again, using his handkerchief to wipe at the grit on her face and her palms.

  He skimmed his hands over her body, feeling for broken limbs or serious cuts. She winced once as he pressed against her middle – a bruised or broken rib, most likely – but otherwise remained emotionless.

  Carefully he scooped her up and strode down the blackened alley to the post where he'd hitched Bathsheba minutes earlier. The horse shied and danced away.

  "Shh, old girl, hold still." He soothed the horse with gentle murmurs meant for both the woman in his arms and the animal. "You'll be fine. It's all right, old girl."

  Setting her sideways in front of him on the horse, Malachi began a steady canter away from the river's edge and the docks' rank smells. Five miles down the rough road northeast to Placer Hills, the shock of what Emma had endured, had suffered from those street blackguards, of what she'd nearly lost at their filthy hands, set in, and fury on her behalf ripped through him.

  He clutched her as tightly as he dared and increased his speed, listening to her slight groans and labored breaths with each gallop of Bathsheba's hooves. The journey back to Placer Hills seemed interminable.

  Shock had clearly set in. Emma's entire body trembled, her jaws clattered, and she whimpered from the cold even though he'd wrapped her tightly in his greatcoat.

  When he reached Placer Hills, he slowed his horse to a trot until he reached the crossroads where their properties diverged, his to the left and hers to the right. He hesitated a long moment. If he took her home, the news of this night's events might spread before they had time to squelch the rumors. Questions, perhaps accusations, from her family.

  But the confines of his small cabin would make her feel uncomfortable. Sarah would know how to comfort her, and at any rate, the woman might be waiting up for her. He angled the horse to the right.

  "No!" Emma groaned. "I don't want to go home. Please." Her thighs against his legs felt hot and damp in spite of the night air. She reached her arms around his neck and her palms against his face burned hot and feverish.

  "Sarah can take care of you," he explained, continuing along the rutted path. "You need to be attended to."

  "No," she insisted.

  She began a quiet, muffled sobbing, wetting his shirt with her tears. Damn, he'd always been undone by a woman's weeping.

  He edged Bathsheba around and negotiated the dirt road past the juncture toward his home.

  Chapter 20

  "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" – Othello

  Malachi cajoled Emma into a tub of warm water sprinkled with Epsom salts, for the stiffness she'd feel in her limbs, he insisted, and draped a sheet over a line of rope to provide some measure of privacy. Then he'd left her in peace.

  She lay back against the wooden rim, weary to the very marrow of her bones, certain she'd never feel better again. Afraid the experience in the alley had damaged something inside her beyond repair.

  Remembering, she sat up quickly and wrapped her arms around her knees. Those men, those filthy animals had gaped and groped at her naked body. She'd never felt so exposed and utterly helpless as during the minutes she'd suffered at their hands.

  She dashed an angry hand across her cheeks and swiped at her runny nose. She didn't want to feel so vulnerable, a casualty of the harsh world of men whose power dominated women. During her four years at Wellesley, she'd felt strong, a woman capable of surviving and prospering in the society of men. But in a short span of time, the men in the alley had stripped her confidence as surely as they'd stripped her clothing from her body.

  Was this how women who lived on the docks felt every moment of their existence? Was there no one they could turn to for protection? Was this Alma's fate?

  Emma remembered the garish face of the prostitute who'd referred her to the unknown "Johnny." Was he the person to whom these desperate women looked for safety? And how protected could they feel when the man who sold their bodies for profit purportedly secured their well-being?

  She stuffed her knuckles against her mouth to smother her sounds. Frustration, anger, and fear whirled around her as she emptied her tears into the rapidly-cooling bath water. Prickles of goose bumps rose on her arms and back as she shivered in the chilly air.

  As if he'd known the exact moment when she needed him, Malachi stepped around the makeshift curtain and held a thick white towel up for her. She allowed him to drape the thick towel arou
nd her body.

  That done, he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the main room where he'd laid a crackling fire. He set her gently in the single worn, heavily-padded chair and used another towel to rub briskly at her legs and arms.

  Turning his back to her, he banked up the coals and added another log to the fire. When he looked at her again, his eyes flashed with an emotion she didn't recognize. "Don't cry, Emma. It breaks my heart to see you weep like this."

  He traced one finger down the line of her jaw. "Don't let the bastards win."

  She wished Malachi had railed at her. Had he berated her for the foolish trip to the docks, she'd have bucked up under his scorn and given him back as good as he gave.

  He reached for a heavy plaid robe that hung by the single bed in the farthest corner of the room. Pulling her to her feet, he let the damp towels drop to the hard floor. He scarcely seemed to notice her nakedness and somehow his disinterest comforted her. Inserting her arms into the oversized robe, he drew the belt around her waist several times and secured it in front.

  Then he led her to the bed, pushed her gently down onto rough, but sweet-smelling, linen and pulled the covers up to her chin. He laid an extra blanket over her feet and stood staring down at her for several long moments. "Go to sleep now. Sleep heals everything, Emma. Trust me."

  She prayed he was right. Her left breast was tender from the young thug's bruising pinch and the scraps on her thighs stung from another's dirty fingernails. She nodded, summoned up a weak smile, and was rewarded by the sudden flashing of teeth against his dark skin.

  The small dimple at the corner of his mouth winked at her once before he became serious again. "I promise you're safe with me." He uttered the words with the solemnity of a holy vow.

  She nodded again and turned on her side, her eyelids feeling like heavy bags of sand over her drooping eyes. She fluttered to keep them open, to keep looking into the anchor of Malachi's face, but the effort became too much.

  She felt herself slipping away into the gentle safety of slumber.