Worthy Brown's Daughter

by Phillip Margolin

  “Thornton’s such a stuffed shirt,” roared Matthew. “Look at him try to maintain his dignity.

  “Oh, my,” Heather giggled. Then they both started laughing again.

  The Pony halted at the railroad bridge, and Benjamin Gillette jumped down, waving his plug hat above his head.

  “Your father seems none the worse for wear,” Matthew observed.

  “He’s a boy at heart, and boys love to get dirty. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get Father home and dried out before he catches his death of cold. I’ll see you at seven.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The two Yankee settlers who’d flipped a coin to decide if their proposed town would be called Boston or Portland had situated it in the most idyllic setting imaginable. On clear days a man could look east across a vast expanse of emerald green and feast his eyes on the Cascades, where snow-covered Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount St. Helens pointed toward heaven. On the west side of the river, forest backed up onto two high hills. Gillette House was a solitary gem set in the deep green of the northwest hill. Building anything in that rugged forest was a major undertaking, and the mansion’s isolation was a testament to the wealth and power of its owner.

  Gillette House could be reached only by a corduroy road that wound upward from the outskirts of town and ended at a curved driveway where carriages discharged those fortunate enough to receive an invitation to feast in the oak-paneled elegance of the dining room or dance in the crystal-lit ballroom. Gillette, who pioneered the use of brick in his bank, broke with convention again by using brick to construct part of the ground floor, but the rest of the mansion was built of solid, horizontal board, painted dark blue to contrast with the white borders of the gables.

  The mansion’s upper stories projected past those below, and a three-story tower, capped by a conical roof, dominated the northwest side of the house. Broad bay windows on the east side provided a view of the city, the river, and the mountains. The house was situated on the edge of a meadow, and the wide back porch, shaded by a gable, overlooked a garden in which bloomed every conceivable variety of rose. Beyond the rose garden, trails led into the thick evergreen forest.

  The sun was still shining, and a piney odor drifted out of the woods as Matthew rode up from the town at a lazy pace. He had pressed a white shirt, and his black silk cravat was neatly tied. A swallowtail coat, light-colored vest, and striped trousers completed the ensemble. When Matthew rode into the large front yard, several prominent citizens in fancy dress were ascending the broad steps to the front porch. He skirted their carriages and secured his horse to a hitching post.

  This was the first time Matthew had been invited into the home of anyone of distinction in Portland, and he found the prospect of mingling with high society daunting. After dismounting, he pulled his coat down nervously and adjusted his britches before climbing the porch steps.

  The chandelier that illuminated the foyer of the mansion made the fixture in Harry Chambers’s inn look insignificant. Oil paintings decorated the brocaded wall of the stairwell. Matthew followed the curve of the polished wood banister to the second-floor landing and found himself in a ballroom where skirts swirled, glasses of golden champagne picked up the crystal light of many more chandeliers, and laughter competed with the strains of a waltz. And there, framed in the sunlight that shone through one of the ceiling-high windows was Heather Gillette. Clothed in a white satin gown, her golden hair done up and her elegant neck graced by a diamond necklace, she was chatting amiably with a small group of her father’s friends and acquaintances.

  Matthew felt guilty about the excitement he felt when he saw Heather. He was still very much in love with his wife. Death didn’t put an end to love; it only made a great love more poignant. But Matthew was still a young man, and there had been occasions when he had felt an attraction to a woman he’d seen or met. Whenever this happened, he felt disloyal to Rachel’s memory. To date, it had been easy to avoid attachments because no woman had come close to Rachel’s combination of warmth, intelligence, and beauty. But something about Heather Gillette created a great conflict in Matthew, and he’d found himself thinking about Benjamin’s daughter a lot since parting from her.

  Matthew worked his way through the dancing couples, watching Heather every step of the way and failing to notice Caleb Barbour, who turned from the group surrounding Benjamin Gillette.

  “What are you doing here, Penny?” Barbour blurted out.

  “He’s my father’s guest,” answered Heather, who had not heard about the incident in Phoenix and was shocked by the intensity of Barbour’s anger.

  “I hope we’re not rehashing old business,” Benjamin cautioned his attorney.

  “I would assume Mr. Penny hasn’t much business since he’s stooped to representing niggers against men of his own race,” Barbour answered.

  “That we’re of the same race is a source of deep embarrassment to me, sir,” Matthew said.

  “Enough, gentlemen,” Gillette said forcefully. “We’re here to celebrate an historical event, not to talk business.”

  “Do you dance, Mr. Penny?” Heather asked.

  “Not well,” answered Matthew, who was still staring angrily at Barbour.

  “We’ll see,” Heather said as she took his hand and led him toward the dance floor and away from Barbour.

  “Why is Mr. Barbour so angry?” Heather asked as soon as there was a barrier of dancers between them and Benjamin’s attorney.

  “Caleb brought two slaves with him when he moved here from Georgia, a father and daughter. The father learned that slavery is banned in Oregon and insisted on his freedom. Barbour ran him off his property, but he’s keeping the child as a servant. I’ve sued on the father’s behalf to make Barbour give her up.”

  “Father is letting me write articles for The Spokesman,” Heather said, naming a newspaper that Gillette owned. “Your lawsuit will make a great story.”

  To Matthew’s relief, Heather’s fascination with Worthy’s case made her forget about dancing, and he went into detail about Worthy’s plight to distract himself from the feelings Gillette’s daughter was evoking.

  “Surely Barbour won’t win,” Heather said when he finished.

  “If Worthy was white, I would be very confident. But it will be difficult for a judge to side with a Negro. And Barbour will fight to the bitter end, if for no other reason than to torture Mr. Brown for daring to stand up to him.”

  “I detest Barbour. I can’t understand why Father keeps him on.”

  “He’s a good lawyer.”

  “But you’re better. At least, that’s what Orville Mason says. Oh, my, you’re blushing, Mr. Penny.”

  Heather laughed, and Matthew’s blush deepened.

  “I’m glad you came,” Heather told him. “Orville said you might not.”

  “I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see Gillette House,” he said, though this was only a partial reason for his acceptance of Benjamin Gillette’s invitation.

  “You’ve never been here before?”

  “Your father and I travel in different circles.”

  “Would you like me to show you the grounds while it’s still light?”

  “I’d enjoy that.”

  The music stopped, and Heather led Matthew away from the dance floor, almost colliding with Sharon Hill at the entrance to the ballroom.

  “Good evening, Mr. Penny. How nice to see you again. Has Mr. Lukens recovered?” she asked with fake solicitousness.

  “He was well enough to leave Portland,” Matthew answered stiffly.

  “Tell him I bear him no ill will, if you see him again, won’t you?” Hill said. Then she headed across the crowded ballroom in Benjamin Gillette’s direction without another word to the young couple.

  “Who is that woman?” Heather asked as she watched Hill walk toward the crowd surrounding her father.

 
“Sharon Hill.”

  “You seem to dislike her.”

  “I think Sharon Hill is very dangerous,” Matthew said. Then he told Heather about Clyde Lukens’s criminal case and his suspicion that Hill had stolen Lukens’s money and lied for revenge.

  “If she’s just arrived in town, I wonder how she came by an invitation to our reception.”

  “She knows your father. He gave her a ride in his carriage when he returned to Portland from court.”

  A frown shaped Heather’s brow for a moment. Then her eyes met Matthew’s, and the frown became a smile.

  “Come, I’ll give you a tour of the grounds. But we have to hurry or we’ll lose the light.”

  Matthew followed Heather downstairs and along a narrow hallway that ended at a door near the kitchen. Outside, the smell of roses was overpowering, and the splashes of red, yellow, pink, and a myriad of other colors delighted Matthew’s eye. Heather hooked her arm in his as she had that afternoon, and they walked through the grounds in silence until they arrived at a gazebo on the edge of the forest. There were benches along the latticework wall and a view of the mountains. They sat down, and Matthew felt awkward. He had not been alone with a woman in a long time.

  “This is my favorite place,” Heather said. “I read here every afternoon when the weather permits.”

  “What do you like to read?”

  “I’m addicted to Shakespeare, I’m afraid.”

  Matthew smiled. “He’s a favorite of mine, too.”

  “You know, I have it on good authority that Charles and Ellen Kean have been enticed to perform The Merchant of Venice at Stewart’s Willamette.”

  “The Keans of London?”

  “They’re on an international tour,” Heather answered.

  “But how?”

  “It was all spur of the moment. They’re in San Francisco. John Potter, who manages Stewart’s Willamette, convinced them to come north.”

  The Keans were among the most esteemed actors in Britain and were touring Australia, North America, and Jamaica, to rave reviews. Stewart’s Willamette had never had anyone like them on its boards. Their Merchant of Venice would be the cultural event of the decade.

  “Would you like to see it, Mr. Penny? We have a box.”

  Matthew hesitated. There was no question he wanted to see the Keans’ performance, and he was thrilled by the thought of spending an evening at the theater with Heather Gillette, but what would it say about his feelings for Rachel?

  “I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind,” Heather went on, and Matthew wondered if he wasn’t making too much of the invitation. It was only an invitation to an evening at the theater, not a love affair.

  “This is very kind of you,” he heard himself say. “I accept.”

  WITH HEATHER BY HIS SIDE, the hours at the reception had flown by. At one point, it had dawned on him that he was actually happy. The feeling departed as rapidly as it had come to him, banished by uneasiness and guilt, but it had been there, and that gave Matthew hope.

  Matthew was reluctant to go home when the party wound down, but the guests began leaving, and Heather had started to yawn. It was dark and cool when Matthew crossed the yard to his horse. He’d just untied the reins when he sensed someone behind him. The incident with Caleb Barbour had made him nervous, and he whirled around faster than he would have under other circumstances. To his relief, it was Francis Gibney who stood before him.

  “A word, Mr. Penny?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Just some advice. You’ve had two run-ins with Caleb Barbour, and there’s this lawsuit.”

  “Yes?”

  “Barbour is a man who should be taken seriously. He won’t come at you himself unless the odds are heavily in his favor, but he’s not above having others do his dirty work.”

  “Are you saying that you know of a plot by Barbour to harm me?”

  “No, nothing like that. But he’s been Mr. Gillette’s lawyer for a while, and I’ve seen the way he works. Do you go armed, Mr. Penny?”

  “Not normally.”

  “Then change your ways and learn to shoot. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to return Miss Hill to town.”

  Gillette’s bodyguard walked away, and Matthew thought about his warning. If Gibney was right, he would have to be alert at all times. That was no way to live, but he would not run from a man like Barbour, and he would not betray the trust of Worthy Brown by resigning from his case.

  Matthew sighed. Coming west had been nothing like he’d imagined. Losing Rachel had broken his heart, and he’d continued on to Oregon because he knew that he would be reminded of her every day if he went back to Ohio. Matthew had hoped that it would be easier to work through his grief in new surroundings. That hadn’t happened, and his law practice had not been much of a success. Now there was Barbour. He wished that life were not so full of the unexpected. All he really wanted was peace, but it looked as if that state of bliss would have to wait. His new priority was learning to shoot a pistol with great accuracy.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sharon Hill closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of her seat. The carriage Benjamin Gillette had provided for her rocked gently as Francis Gibney guided it down the hill to the Evergreen Hotel. This evening had been interesting. Gillette had not been overtly affectionate in public, but he had introduced her to some of his crowd. They were all powerful and well connected, and she felt that she had charmed the men. How much she’d succeeded with the women was another question. A few had been cold to her. Some, she suspected, were suspicious. A few had been cordial.

  And then there had been her encounter with Justice Tyler. He had been leaving just as she arrived.

  “I saw you on the grandstand, this afternoon,” she had said, “but I wasn’t able to get over to say hello. I’m glad I’ve run into you again. Ever since Phoenix, I’ve wanted to tell you how impressed I was with the way you ran your court.”

  “I did my job and nothing more,” was his stiff reply, and she sensed that he was uneasy around her.

  “And the way you handled the mob. That, too, was impressive.”

  “They were good men who were misled by their passions. That we are a nation of laws is a concept that’s new to many in the West. Most men will follow the law when they know what it is and that it’s there for them,” Tyler had said, sounding like a man giving a lecture on civics to a group of students.

  “Would most men obey the law without strong men to enforce it?”

  “Perhaps not, but I would hope so.”

  “But are there not outlaws?” Hill asked. “Men whose nature makes it impossible for them to conform their conduct to the rules of society? And doesn’t the existence of these outlaws create a need for men like you?”

  “Unfortunately, that is so,” Tyler admitted.

  Sharon Hill had smiled wickedly. “Have you ever broken the law, Judge?”

  Tyler had seemed to loosen up, and he’d smiled back. “If I have, I would be foolish to admit it.”

  “Then you’ve sinned?”

  Tyler’s smile had widened. “Ah, Miss Hill, you have me there. I know of no man who hasn’t committed some sin, but a man may sin without violating the law.”

  Tyler had just begun to relax when Ben had come along and the judge had left. Hill sensed in Tyler a ruthlessness and drive that matched her own. And he had been so nervous around her, a sure sign that he was attracted to her. It didn’t matter anyway. Tyler was interesting, but Gillette was rumored to be worth millions and he was the prize.

  The carriage halted, and Hill opened her eyes. Francis Gibney stepped down and offered his hand. She accepted it but felt no warmth when they touched.

  “Thank you, Francis,” she said as he helped her out.

  Gibney eyed her coolly but didn’t reply. He was one of the few men Sharon Hill feared. Gibney
was impervious to her charms and made no effort to conceal his contempt for her when his boss was not around. Though she had no reason to believe that he was interfering with her plans for Gillette, she suspected that he would be a formidable opponent if he decided to intervene.

  Hill crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to the suite Benjamin was renting for her. A maid had lit the gaslights when she’d turned down the covers of the oversize bed. As soon as she closed the door, Hill went to her dressing table. She was in the act of removing her jewelry when someone knocked loudly.

  The knock was too belligerent for one of the hotel staff. Sharon looked through the peephole and found an intoxicated Caleb Barbour swaying back and forth in the hall. Barbour pounded on her door again. Hill opened it, and Barbour staggered in. She closed the door quickly.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “You’re drunk, and it’s late.”

  “Then why did you let me in?” Barbour asked with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Let me make one thing clear, Caleb. I let you in to lessen the chance of a scandal. If someone were to see you at my door in your condition, they might not understand.”

  “You know I find you very attractive,” Barbour said, his speech slurred.

  “I repeat, you’re drunk, and it’s late. I know you’d never come here if you were clearheaded. What would Ben say if he found out that you forced your way into my room in this condition? He’s already upset with the way you handled that case in Phoenix.”

  Hill’s mention of Phoenix hit Barbour like a bucket of cold water. Anger cut through some of the effects of the liquor he’d imbibed.

  “That bastard Penny,” he muttered.

  “His accusations were vile, but they forced Ben to settle, and he didn’t want to lose that case. He’s told me so.”

  “Did he say anything about me?” Barbour asked, suddenly concerned.