Worthy Brown's Daughter

by Phillip Margolin

THEY TALKED A LITTLE LONGER, then Worthy put some vegetables from his garden in Matthew’s saddlebags and the lawyer went on his way.

  Worthy watched Matthew disappear around a bend in the trail. He wanted to believe that Matthew would save Roxanne, but there were times when his belief in the possibility of justice wavered. He’d not had much justice since the raiders came to Bambuk-Bure, and it was hard to believe that his luck would change now.

  CHAPTER 16

  The weather changed for the worse a week before the Keans’ Saturday evening performance of The Merchant of Venice. The rain, which drove the denizens of Portland to seek shelter, made Matthew realize that he didn’t own any means of transport suitable for squiring a young lady of Heather’s class to the theater. That problem was solved after Sunday services at Ezekiel Mason’s church when Heather invited Matthew to dine at the mansion before the theater and ride into town with her and her father.

  On the evening of the show, Matthew was so nervous that he nicked himself shaving. As he rode up the hill, he worried that the Gillettes would notice he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the reception for the Oregon Pony, his only nice outfit other than the funereal black suit he wore to court. He also worried about his feelings for Heather Gillette and how he could have them if he still loved Rachel.

  When Matthew visited Worthy Brown at his cabin, Worthy had told Matthew that the passage of time had transformed Africa into a dream in which he could no longer distinguish reality from what his imagination had painted in. Was Rachel becoming less substantial with each passing day? There were moments when he had to struggle to recall her scent after a bath or the exact contours of her face. This made him sad.

  Even if his memories of Rachel might be fading, Matthew knew that he would always love her. One thing he had learned after Rachel passed was that there was no truth in the part of his marriage vow that read, “Till death do us part.” Rachel’s death had forced Matthew to think about the biggest of questions, and he had decided that death did not part people who truly loved each other. A person was not only a body. The body was only a vessel that contained a person’s soul. The way a person looked did not define her. It was her personality that made Rachel different from every other person on Earth. And that personality—her soul—would live as long as those who remembered Rachel existed.

  If death had not parted Rachel’s soul from Matthew and he was still passionately in love with her, would it be fair to court Heather, no matter how strong his feelings for her? Was it possible to love two women equally?

  And there was another problem. Heather had rekindled feelings in Matthew he thought were dead, but Matthew wondered if he was foolish to pursue her. There were two inescapable facts he had to confront; he was poor, and Heather Gillette was the daughter of the wealthiest man in Oregon.

  DURING DINNER, HEATHER TALKED NONSTOP about the interview for The Spokesman she’d conducted with the Keans. Benjamin Gillette smiled proudly during Heather’s excited recitation of her discussions of Shakespeare, the theater, and the arts with the famous thespians. By dinner’s end, Matthew was completely relaxed. He had worried that Benjamin might be upset that Matthew had accepted his daughter’s invitation to the theater, but Benjamin seemed pleased to be in his company. When Heather left the men to make her final preparations for their evening out, he offered Matthew brandy and a cigar.

  A brief return to summer’s balmy weather had surprised Portland, and Ben led Matthew outside to the front porch. Matthew sipped his brandy and contemplated the snowy face of Mount Hood, which was turning a shade of rose in the rays of the setting sun. Benjamin blew a stream of smoke into the air.

  “What’s come of that matter with Caleb?” Gillette asked.

  The question surprised Matthew. Then he realized that it shouldn’t have. After all, Barbour was Gillette’s attorney.

  “He’s shown no inclination to return Mr. Brown’s daughter, so we’ll have to go to court.”

  “How do you fancy your chances?” Gillette asked as Francis Gibney brought the carriage to a halt at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “I think it will be a hard case, but I believe I’m on the right side of it.”

  Gillette nodded as the front door opened and Heather bustled out, all smiles, her excitement a delight to the two men who waited for her.

  PORTLAND’S NIGHTTIME STREETS WERE ALWAYS crowded, but the throng in front of Stewart’s Willamette was unusually large. Gaslight shone down on the hoi polloi, who crowded around the entrance to the theater eager for a glimpse of the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen lucky enough to have a ticket for the performance. Francis drove the carriage to the curb, using it as a barrier to protect his passengers from the mob. Matthew helped Heather down. She looked stunning in blue satin, her slender neck graced by South Sea pearls the color and shape of a full moon.

  The lobby was even more claustrophobic than the street, and Matthew was grateful for Benjamin’s bulk, which, coupled with his prestige, cleared a path through the crowd. They were almost through the lobby when Orville Mason hailed them.

  “Have you ever seen anything more thrilling?” Heather asked him.

  Matthew suspected that Heather was swept away by the excitement of the moment and her visit with the actors, since she must have had some experiences in San Francisco and Boston that rivaled the Keans’ premiere.

  “Not in Portland,” Orville answered.

  “Everybody is here,” Heather said after a quick perusal of the theatergoers.

  A bell signaled the ticket holders to take their seats, and Orville looked for his parents. Heather grabbed Matthew and pulled him after her father.

  THE PERFORMANCE WAS MAGNIFICENT. AFTERWARD, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Eldridge, prominent patrons of the Portland art scene, hosted an elegant affair at their mansion so Portland’s elite could meet the Keans. Matthew shielded Heather as they pushed through the crush of bodies in the entry hall. Ahead was a grand room from which issued the music of a string quartet that could barely be heard over the hum of conversation. At one end of the room, the Keans held court near a massive fireplace. Matthew was about to follow Heather inside when Benjamin Gillette grabbed his biceps.

  “Matthew, I’ve some business to attend to in town, so I won’t be returning to Gillette House tonight. Francis will take you and Heather back. He’ll return here as soon as he’s dropped me off and wait until you’re ready.”

  Gillette walked off, and Matthew took two flutes filled with champagne from a silver tray carried by a waiter in livery. As he handed Heather a glass, he told her Benjamin’s plans. Heather looked troubled.

  “What’s wrong?” Matthew asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I think he’s seeing that woman, again.”

  “What woman?”

  “Sharon Hill. They were observed dining at the Evergreen, and Papa is taking her with him when he goes to San Francisco on business. I’m not supposed to know, but Francis let it slip.” Her shoulders sagged. “I know Papa is a grown man and mother’s been dead for some years. I just worry about him, especially after what you told me about Phoenix.”

  “Your father is very savvy. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “I suppose so, but I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t let Sharon Hill spoil the evening,” Matthew counseled.

  “You’re right. Papa can take care of himself. Now, come with me.”

  Heather took Matthew by the hand and led him toward the Keans, who were surrounded by a crowd of their admirers. Ellen Kean spotted Heather and pulled her into their inner circle. By the time Heather left the party it was clear that her heady experience with the actors and the effect of the champagne she’d imbibed had left her too elated to worry about her father and Sharon Hill.

  HEATHER CHATTERED AWAY WHILE FRANCIS drove their carriage through the noisy, gaslit streets of Por
tland, but she became quiet and thoughtful during the rest of the ride to Gillette House. As soon as Matthew helped her out of the carriage, Francis drove away. When the carriage was out of sight, Heather closed her eyes and breathed in the aroma of roses that drifted up from plantings that edged the turnaround in front of the porch.

  “What a magical evening,” Heather said dreamily. “I’m too excited to sleep, and the night is so pleasant. Will you walk with me to the gazebo?”

  She hooked an arm in one of Matthew’s. As they strolled along the path that led around the side of the house and into the garden, their hips touched, and Matthew was painfully aware that only the fabric of his shirt and jacket lay between him and Heather’s bare arm.

  When they were inside the gazebo, Matthew sat beside Heather. It was too dark to see her face clearly. Then the moon came out from behind a cloud, and he caught her staring at him. He wanted to hold her. From the way she was looking at him, he knew she would not resist. Then they were in each other’s arms. The moment their lips touched, Matthew was overwhelmed by guilt and he pulled back.

  “What’s wrong?” Heather asked.

  “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that . . . Heather, I was married.”

  “I know. Orville told me,” she answered cautiously.

  “She died. You need to know that I loved her very much.”

  “You don’t have to say anything else. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t,” Matthew said firmly. “I like you. When we’re together, it feels . . . I don’t know . . . right. But you need to know that I’m still in love with Rachel and I always will be, no matter what feelings develop between us.”

  Heather didn’t answer for a moment. Then she looked at him steadily. “How did Rachel . . . ? What happened to her?”

  “She drowned. We were on our way to Oregon from Ohio. There was a river we had to ford. She was riding with a pregnant friend so she could comfort her during the crossing. The wagon was washed away. It was the only wagon that didn’t cross safely.”

  Matthew choked up when he remembered Rachel’s waving at him just before the wagon entered the river. Heather touched Matthew’s cheek. Her hand was warm and comforting, and he did not draw away.

  “I would never ask you to forget someone you loved so much,” she said.

  Matthew didn’t know what to say. His heart was beating hard enough to frighten him. Until this moment, it had seemed impossible that he would ever be happy again.

  THE REST OF MATTHEW’S SHORT STAY in the gazebo was chaste, and he took his leave after promising to see Heather the next day at church. She waved from the front door, and it wasn’t until it had closed and she was no longer in sight that Matthew realized that the temperature had dropped and the night air had turned cold. His sack coat was in his saddlebags. He put it on and stuffed his revolvers into the pockets before untying his horse and riding back to town. He let the horse walk slowly, content to prolong the trip so he could think through what had just happened.

  Until he kissed Heather, Matthew had not realized how much he missed a woman’s touch. Making love with Rachel had always been wonderful, even if they were tired or intercourse was hurried, because he had been with Rachel. More important than the act of sex was the touching and holding, the warmth of Rachel’s body and the comfort she provided. Being in Heather’s arms reminded Matthew of how much he missed just holding hands with Rachel. Now there was the possibility that he could find that closeness with Heather and be happy again.

  So absorbed was Matthew by these thoughts that he didn’t notice the two men until they were almost upon him.

  Tall firs blocked the moon, casting the trail in shadows, and the men were wearing dark clothing that helped them blend into the night. The nearest man swung a club at Matthew. His horse reared. Instinct lifted Matthew’s arm and bent him away from the strike. He took the blow on his forearm as he toppled out of the saddle, falling hard, his arms flailing as the stars whipped past his eyes. The fall stunned him, but his startled mount backed and moved sideways, stopping his attackers from getting to him. While his assailants tried to maneuver around his horse, Matthew regained his wind and his senses. By the time his mount was steady enough for one man to run around it, Matthew’s hands were grasping his pistols.

  Matthew had gotten to the point where he could hit a man-size target from a good distance. But those targets had been stationary, and they hadn’t been trying to kill him. Matthew squeezed the triggers of both weapons as soon as his assailant rounded the horse’s rump. Both shots missed at six feet, but the explosions had the desired effect. The attacker froze for a second then raced into the woods. Matthew looked under his horse and saw a second pair of legs in pursuit of the first. He forced himself to his feet and pointed both pistols at the trees behind which the men had disappeared. He fired two more shots; then he waited until his fear abated and his arms grew heavy before lowering the guns.

  Matthew’s arm burned where the attacker’s club had connected, and his legs and back hurt from the fall. The gunshots had startled Matthew’s horse and it had run off. He limped down the road after her, turning his guns on the trees at the slightest sound. The horse was grazing in a clearing a quarter mile on. Matthew considered himself lucky that he didn’t have to walk back to town and luckier still that he was alive to ride back.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Reverend Ezekial Mason had built the First Congregational Church on a high hill to serve as a beacon for those in need of enlightenment. Its belfry had served as young Orville Mason’s window on the world. Perched like an eagle in his aerie, Orville had peered down from his tower at the wake of stern-wheelers paddling up the Willamette and steamers chugging toward the mouth of the Columbia and wondered where they were bound.

  Ezekial and Amelia Mason gave their son his wings and an education at Harvard, where the intellectual curiosity the tall, rawboned minister and his wife had fostered in their only child served Orville well. Orville loved Harvard, but he grew homesick. As soon as he graduated, he returned to the West, where the winding rivers, iron mountains, and verdant forests left no doubt about man’s insignificance and God’s majesty.

  When Matthew rode into the churchyard on Sunday morning, he heard Orville talking to several parishioners about the upcoming election.

  “Bell will not be a factor,” Orville stated with confidence in response to the question about the chances of John Bell of Tennessee, the presidential nominee of the Constitutional Union Party. “With four parties competing for the presidency, Bell’s only hope is to win enough electoral votes to send the election into the House of Representatives, but that’s not going to happen.”

  Like Orville, most Oregonians had firmly held opinions about the upcoming election, and everyone was expressing their opinion because the issues being debated in the newest state in the Union were of a magnitude never seen before. Slavery and secession dominated the editorial pages of Portland’s papers, the street-corner arguments of the rabble and the drawing room discussions of the well-to-do.

  Matthew’s arm was still sore where the club had connected and his back and legs continued to ache. The discomfort had made it difficult to sleep, but pain was not the only reason he had not been able to rest. When he closed his eyes, thoughts of Rachel and Heather alternated with speculation about the origins of the attack. Had he been the victim of a random robbery attempt or the object of Caleb Barbour’s wrath?

  When Matthew entered the church, he saw Heather and her father standing near their pews in the front row. The thought of meeting Benjamin made Matthew more nervous than the attack. His assailants were gone. The father of the woman he’d kissed in the gazebo was only a few feet away.

  Matthew steeled himself and walked down the aisle. Heather broke into a wide grin when she spotted him. Ben turned to see why his daughter was smiling.

  “Have you recovered from the events of last evening?” Gillet
te asked Matthew.

  Matthew assumed that Ben didn’t know he’d been attacked, and he hoped that Heather had kept their kiss in the gazebo secret, so he guessed that Ben was referring to the Keans’ performance.

  “I doubt I’ll ever see The Merchant of Venice performed better,” Matthew answered.

  “I agree,” Ben said. “It was magnificent.”

  With Heather’s father near, Heather and Matthew confined their conversation to the Keans and Shakespeare. When the service ended, the congregation walked across an open space to the social hall, where the wives had laid out a sumptuous feast. Heather and Matthew managed to slip away from her father and find a spot on the side of the church where they could talk unobserved. Matthew didn’t want to worry Heather, so he didn’t mention the attack.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Heather said.

  “I didn’t, either.”

  “Are you upset with me because I kissed you?” Heather asked.

  Matthew saw her concern. He took her hand in his and smiled.

  “You have no idea how much that kiss meant to me.” Matthew paused. “Even so, Heather, I’m still grieving for Rachel. I don’t want to rush into anything.”

  Heather couldn’t help looking disappointed.

  “You mean a lot to me,” Matthew said, “and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Do you still want to see me or . . . ?”

  Matthew squeezed her hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, Heather, I do want to see you.”

  She smiled.

  “Now let’s go to the social,” Matthew said, “or tongues will start wagging.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Monday morning, Matthew tried to work on Worthy Brown’s case, but his mind kept wandering back and forth between the attack and Heather. He was staring into space, wondering when he would see her again, when someone knocked on his office door. Matthew picked up a pistol and peeked through the curtains. When he saw that his caller was Francis Gibney, he breathed a sigh of relief and put down the gun.