“Shhh! We’re not in the mountains anymore. Remember to act—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Civilized.” With a flash of annoyance, he strode outside again to get a breath of fresh air. A couple of young women smiled at him and twirled their parasols invitingly as they passed by, but he ignored them. The only woman he cared about was Annabelle Bergman, and in spite of that, he was determined that once this business was over, he was off to the Sandwich Islands. Nothing could hold him back. Nothing.
When Ben returned, Annabelle was waiting, clutching the homestead paperwork to her chest. “What’s that?” she wondered, looking at the small book he had purchased at a nearby shop.
Ben glanced at it. “It’s a replacement for one I gave to a good friend.” He tucked the volume into his pocket. “At least Salem has a decent bookstore. Are you done? Let’s go.”
At the bottom of the land office steps, Annabelle looked up and down the street as if wondering which way to go. Ben thought resignedly that he should have expected she wouldn’t want to return to the mountains immediately, not after being away from civilization for so long.
“The shops are that direction,” he told her.
“I’m not looking for shops. I was wondering which of those houses belong to your parents. You said they lived in Salem, didn’t you?”
He sighed deeply. “Yes, and I also told you—”
“I refuse to leave until you visit your mother and father. I’m quite prepared to stay in Salem a week or more if necessary.” She took off down a street apparently at random, her slim back radiating stubbornness.
Ben was forced to quicken his stride to catch up with her. “You’re heading in the wrong direction.”
The fact was, he had found the Marlowe dry goods store earlier when he had gone to get the necessary money. The employee, Jeremy, remembered him from New York days and had told him where his parents’ house was. Ben was not surprised to learn that his parents’ home stood near the center of town, in one of its best neighborhoods. The Marlowe family was not the type to blend into the woodwork, either in Salem or anywhere else.
“Very well.” Annabelle wheeled, looking marginally less stubborn, and began to walk just as briskly the opposite way. Her eyes took in the houses lining the street, as if trying to decide which of them was the right one. The plain but well-built structures with whitewashed porches and painted shutters, with newly planted young trees offering shade to the unpaved street, gave the new city a feeling of permanence missing from many other frontier towns. After a generation of settlers, Salem hardly qualified as a frontier town anymore.
Fighting down equal parts irritation and admiration, he took her elbow. “Be careful what you wish for, Annabelle.”
She looked up at him, face shining with hope. “Do you mean you’ll see them?”
“You may regret this—I certainly will—but yes. I’ll see my parents.” He ignored the tensing muscles in his body at the thought. “Someone told me their house stands at the end of that street over there. Come along.”
Ben knew instantly which house was his parents’: a neo-Gothic structure with pillars holding up a classical portico in the front, its oversized cupola standing well above the rooflines of all the other large houses on the street. His mother’s style exactly. He wondered why his parents hadn’t decided to settle in San Francisco, on famous Nob Hill, before remembering that railroad barons and other power mavens already dominated politics in California. Lavinia Marlowe believed her husband would have more opportunity to gain power in the still-growing Northwest. As for herself, Ben’s mother was likely hard at work creating some sort of “society” from the female residents of what one of her early letters called, sneeringly, a city of “washerwomen and owners of boardinghouses.”
“This is their house?” Annabelle stopped so suddenly that Ben bumped into her. “Your parents live here? But …” There was no disputing that the mansion was the very last house on the street. “That’s impossible.”
“My father is a successful businessman.” Ben’s voice was dry. With Lavinia Marlowe’s social connections and sharp intelligence, it would have been virtually impossible for her husband not to succeed.
Annabelle’s grip tightened on his forearm, sharp as a kitten’s claws. “Go on in, Ben. I … I’ll wait for you out here.”
“Nonsense. This was all your idea.” A possible reason for her reluctance occurred to him. “If you’re worried about your reputation, I’ll assure Mother that I’ve treated you like a lady. She’ll scold me for not observing the proprieties, but my mother will understand you could hardly have traveled to Salem without an escort.”
Annabelle shuffled her feet. “That’s not what I meant. Ben, look at me.”
He did. Her brown hair, parted down the middle and knotted simply at her nape, glowed like golden fire. Her gray eyes shone above flushed cheeks. With a slow flip of his heart, he thought she looked lovely.
As his gaze lingered, she blushed and shuffled uncomfortably, gesturing at her patched brown dress. “Look at what I’m wearing.”
“So?” He took her hand and attempted to pull her up the marble steps. When she drew back, he turned, this time trying to survey her as his mother would. Annabelle looked fine to him—more than fine—but now that he thought of it, his mother might find fault with the wisps of hair escaping the chignon and the hand-me-down dress that even he had to admit now had seen better days. Having dealt with the cutting edge of his mother’s judgment, Ben realized it would be cruel to allow Annabelle to face it unprepared.
“We passed a shop on the way here that may have something you could wear,” he said with a sense of resignation. Already, he felt the “ties that bind” tightening around him. So much for a quick rush into Salem with minimal contact with anyone who might recognize him. Jeremy would be surprised to see him twice so soon.
Her gray eyes filled with tears. “You know I can’t pay for anything.”
“Don’t be a fool.” He pulled her back the way they had come. “I’ll put it on my parents’ account, of course.”
A small bell tinkled as they walked through the door under the green-and-white striped awning, and an elderly, cracked voice emerge from the back of the store. “Well, bless my soul! After five years, to see you twice in one afternoon, Mr. Benjamin!”
A hunch-backed man stood on a ladder, stocking shelves. Ben strode toward him, ignoring Annabelle’s startled stare. “It appears my adieu an hour ago was premature, Jeremy. I’m back, not for a spot of cash this time, but a new ensemble for this young lady.”
The skinny old man clambered down the ladder and bounded energetically over to greet them, taking Annabelle’s hand in a bony grip. “Well, well! How do you do? You must be—?”
“Don’t look so hopeful, Jeremy,” Ben interrupted gruffly. “This is my good friend, Miss Annabelle Bergman, who will be on her way shortly. In the meantime, have you a pretty frock in her size, suitable for, say, an interview with my mother?”
Jeremy was too well trained to show surprise. “Indeed I do.” The storekeeper turned and called over his shoulder, “Zeke, fetch that new tea dress from the storeroom, the green one.” He disappeared toward a door in the back, returning moments later with an armful of billowing fabric.
Ben saw Annabelle’s eyes fasten with astonishment on the emerald-green moiré frock with a long row of jet buttons down the front and deep black fringe lining the hem.
“There’s several other dresses back there,” the clerk explained, “but I thought this would look nice on the young lady. I have a good eye for lady’s sizes. These button-up boots might fit too, miss. I see your slippers are just about worn out.”
“Why Jeremy, you old dog, to notice such things,” Ben said, his grin broadening. “Well, Annabelle, do you like the new frock?”
She recovered her voice. “It’s beautiful. But—”
“Go upstairs, then, and put it on. Jeremy, there’s an apartment above the store, isn’t there, just like the one in New York?
My mother described it in her letter, when she was trying to persuade me to come out here. She thought I could live there, if only I’d agree to join my parents in Oregon.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right.” The old man fumbled behind the counter and produced a key. “Mrs. Marlowe will be thrilled you finally decided to take it.”
“No, I won’t be staying there, but perhaps Miss Bergman could use it to change clothes. Oh, and please send the bill for the dress to my father.”
An odd expression crossed the shopkeeper’s creased face. “Your father? Er … then you haven’t heard, sir?”
At the other man’s tone, Ben stiffened and turned slowly. “Heard? Heard what?”
The elderly shopkeeper’s face lengthened. “Your father is dead. Mr. Marlowe passed away less than a year after he arrived in Salem.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Annabelle
Salem
Late Summer, 1866
Old Jeremy apologized over and over for breaking the news so abruptly. “Your mother sent several letters, but I guess they never found you. I’m sorry, sir.”
Ben did not flinch, although his face took on a new, rigid look Annabelle had not seen before. He stood still, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his trousers. His lack of expression reminded her of the fact that Ben and his father had been estranged, which made his stony reaction to the news of the death seem even more cold hearted. She had hoped so much to help bring about reconciliation between them, but that was no longer possible.
Distressed at the news of Mr. Marlowe’s death and nervous at the prospect of meeting his widow, Annabelle allowed the old storekeeper to escort her up the stairs and through a door at the top, which opened into a suite of small but comfortably furnished rooms.
“I’ve known Benjamin Marlowe since he was born,” Jeremy told her, pouring warm water from a kettle into a basin sitting on the armoire. “He was a good boy, and smart as a whip. I’ve been working for his family ever since Samuel Marlowe opened his first store in Manhattan thirty years ago. I came west because, after all those years, I couldn’t imagine working for anyone else.”
She smiled at him. The old man seemed friendly, and it was clear that he was fond of Ben.
He handed her a towel. “It’s lucky I always have a kettle on the stove in the back, miss, so I can enjoy a cup of peppermint tea when there’s no customers in the store. Nice to have hot water ready to wash up in, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly is. Thank you,” she told him. Beaming with pleasure, he backed out, carefully shutting the door to give her privacy. Annabelle washed her face and hands and brushed her hair before twisting it into a fresh knot. Then she pulled on the new dress.
Gazing at the reflection in the full-length cheval mirror at one end of the room, she realized how long it had been since she’d seen herself head to toe. The black fringe brushed the ground, and the bodice hugged her waist perfectly. A bunch of extra fabric was draped up behind in what the shopkeeper had called a “bustle,” a silly and impractical style, but as she turned back and forth in front of the mirror, Annabelle thought that perhaps she could grow used to the look. It did make her look taller and slimmer. The little straw hat on top was the perfect touch.
She couldn’t help twirling around a few times to watch the dress bell out before stopping suddenly. How could she think of something so trivial as her appearance so soon after learning that Ben’s father had died? Annabelle’s pleasure dimmed as she recalled the other news, almost as devastating in its own way—that Ben was not a penniless drifter, after all, but the scion of a rich and prominent family. His educated diction and good manners had been a clue, but his behavior had been so friendly and down to earth, his willingness to take on the lowest farm chores so ready, that Annabelle had stopped wondering about his origins.
Now, she thought, once again the enigmatic Benjamin Marlowe had turned into a stranger. She really didn’t know him at all.
When Annabelle descended the stairs, the dress swished around her ankles like tall summer grass. A mix of shyness and disquiet caused her to hover in the store’s background as the two men standing by the counter conversed in low voices. After a moment she realized they were discussing the flood that had killed Ben’s father and nearly destroyed Salem.
“The water reached as far inland as the courthouse.” The old man shook his head. “Your father was a hero. He died rescuing a family with three children. That was not the end of Salem’s troubles, though. The last few years, our region has been besieged by a group of bank robbers, whose leader is a giant with a bushy yellow beard. There are wanted posters for the fellow plastered over three states.”
A bandit with a yellow beard? Annabelle stiffened, remembering the poster she had seen. The picture looked like the tall man she had met at the mouth of the canyon a couple of years earlier. The one who had tried to kiss her. Could he be the leader of the bandits Jeremy was talking about? She shivered. There had been something oddly likeable about the stranger, but now Annabelle was certain she’d been right to be afraid of him.
“The bandits only prey on banks?” Ben asked, unaware of her reaction. “Not stagecoaches or travelers?”
“Yes, sir, only banks. Not long ago a clerk in another town was murdered during a robbery, and now the price on the fellow’s head has been raised to $5,000.”
Murder! Now Annabelle was transported back in time to another bandit, the one who had murdered her parent. That one had been different from the second outlaw who claimed not to rob ladies or children.
Clearing her throat, Annabelle approached the men. They both looked up, breaking off their conversation. She saw that Ben had changed his clothing during her absence, looking surprisingly handsome in a new frock coat over a checked waistcoat and a white shirt with a narrow black neckcloth around its crisp round collar. It was hard to believe she had ever mistaken him for an Indian when now he was the image of a successful young businessman, with a bowler hat slanting rakishly over his neatly combed hair. Where was the buckskin-clad adventurer who loafed under pine trees on warm afternoons?
Uncomfortably fingering the folds of her own new dress, Annabelle felt as if the universe had shifted into a new and unfamiliar pattern, as if God had turned the handle of a kaleidoscope and she and Ben were two of the pieces. The past was no longer real, while the future was unknown.
Ben’s eyebrows soared. “My, my! Well chosen, Jeremy. Even my mother couldn’t find fault with her.”
“The young lady is a right pretty thing, sir. Mrs. Marlowe will be pleased that you’ve brought her.”
Annabelle looked down at the unfamiliar gown. “I’ll return these things later. Obviously I have no money to buy them. But, somehow, I’ll find a way to repay you for the filing fee at the land office, Ben.”
“Nonsense.” His tone was careless. “Didn’t you see my family name over the door? ‘Marlowe’s Emporium.’ What’s the point of owing a store full of merchandise if a person can’t use it as he pleases? I’ll make sure Jeremy packs a trunk of clothes when I send you back to the farm in the wagon.”
“Send me back?” Her head came up sharply.
“I can hardly let you walk back all that distance by yourself. One of my father’s employees will drive you up to the valley after you’ve had your fill of city life. Of course, you can stay here as long as you please.” A small line appeared between his eyebrows. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it? To have a taste of civilization before returning to your brother? Or did you change your mind and decide to accept Heber Grimshaw’s offer?”
When she found her voice, it came out tight and haughty. “Yes, I do plan to return to the valley. But I am perfectly capable of returning the same way I came.”
Tension crackled in the air. After a brief silence, Ben said, “Jeremy, don’t you have some work in the back?”
“Work? Why, yes, sir. Of course.” Jeremy tactfully withdrew.
To avoid looking directly at Ben, Annabelle focused her eyes on the top but
ton of his shirt. Was anything in life the way it appeared to be, or would her life always be a series of shocks and sudden wrenching changes in direction? It didn’t matter whether Ben was rich or poor, or whether she truly knew him or not. They would separate soon anyway. It was clear he had brought her here only to placate her, like a kind gentleman offering a child a brightly colored toy, before leaving her life forever.
When a door thumped shut in the back of the store, Ben spoke. “We agreed that I’d help you register the farm with the land office and then I would go off in my own direction. Have I ever said otherwise?”
“No.”
He exhaled impatiently. “The wagon that carries you back will be filled with farm equipment and supplies, and be pulled by a pair of horses that will help Richard with the plowing. I’ll make sure they pack plenty of flour, sugar, and other provisions to make your life more comfortable. With a wagon you’ll be able to return to town as often as you want to sell your harvests, to buy more supplies, and mingle with others whenever you wish.”
She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “Thank you, but we don’t need your charity.”
Ben looked confused. “Charity?” After a pause, his expression changed. “Even if I drove you back to the farm myself, it would change nothing, you know. It is time for me to move on.”
“I know.”
“Annabelle!” He touched her cheek and stared at his wet finger.
She didn’t dare wipe her face on the sleeve of the borrowed gown for fear of ruining it. A handkerchief pressed itself into in her hand, and Annabelle realized Ben had plucked it off a shelf. She laughed a little, as she dabbed her eyes. “I suppose you’ll have to add this handkerchief to the bill,” she said, sniffing.
“Consider it part of my ‘charity.’” Ben took her hand. “Now tell me why you’re upset.”
“You must know why.”
“Tell me anyway.”
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