Fletcher's Woman (21 page)

“Why not?”

“Because I want him to stay alive, McKay—for a number of reasons. He's the only doctor within miles, for one thing, and he is my cousin, for another.”
I want him to see Rachel's belly round with my babies. I want him to crawl.

McKay was clearly disappointed, but to Jonas's relief, he stopped talking.

And a picture sprang full-blown into Jonas's tortured mind—Rachel, heavy with child. His child.

The image had nothing to do with revenge against Griffin; no, that would be only a minor pleasure, compared to seeing Rachel bear his children, to having her surrender her sweet softness to him whenever he desired her. And that would be often.

Jonas smiled. With rueful certainty, he admitted to himself that he'd fallen in love.

After that, his plans were easier to make.

•   •   •

Field Hollister expected to find wholesale destruction when he strode into Griffin's study that night, and he was not disappointed.

The great oak desk had been overturned, its drawers askew like flailing limbs. Books littered the floor, and the heavy velvet draperies had been torn from their rods and flung in every direction.

Teetering in the middle of the wreckage was Griffin Fletcher.

Field had seen his friend through other rages—when Louisa Fletcher had died, after Athena's betrayal—but none that even remotely rivaled this one. “Give me the bottle, Griff,” he said evenly.

Griffin smiled, lifted the bottle to his lips, and drank copiously.

Field sighed, caught Molly Brady's eyes, and nodded to her to leave the room.

She shot one reluctant, distraught glance in Griffin's direction and did as she was bidden. Mute with fear, Billy tagged after her and closed the study doors behind him.

Field knew better than to try to reason with his friend at this point; it was too late for that. There was little to do but wait and stand by until the storm passed. He knelt and began gathering up the scattered books.

Griffin's voice was a low, wretched drawl. “You know what you are, Field? You're a mender.”

Field did not look up. “Is that so?”

There was a long pause. “Do you know how long I knew Rachel, Field? Six days.”

Field examined the broken binding of a volume of Greek philosophy, unruffled. “God made the world in six days, Griffin. Obviously, a lot can be accomplished in that length of time.”

Griffin's laugh came in a broken rasp. “It's fitting, don't you think, that it takes the same amount of time to tear it down again?”

Field gathered Chaucer and Shakespeare and Ben Johnson in reverent hands. “Everything is going to be all right, Griffin,” he said quietly.

Griffin growled, low in his throat, and flung the bottle across
the room. It shattered against the sturdy doors of the study, bathing them in a sheet of alcohol.

Field ignored the violence of the action. “That's a start,” he said.

Miss Cunningham was clearly displeased by Rachel's request that hot water and a bathtub be brought to her room, but she complied, nonetheless, after informing her tenant that such favors cost extra and weren't to be expected more often than once a week.

As Rachel lowered her aching body into the water, after the old woman had gone and the door was locked again, she couldn't help remembering another bath, in another, much grander house.

How Griffin had frightened her that day, standing in the doorway like a solidified storm cloud, ordering her to get dressed.

Something ached in Rachel's throat, and she glanced toward the sturdy door of the stairway room. If only he would appear in this doorway, now, and say that it had all been a terrible mistake, that he had done all those beautiful things to her that night in the lumber camp because he loved her.

Rachel sat bolt upright in the steaming water and berated herself in a sharp undertone. “Ninny!”

Then, fueled by her own self-scorn, she scrubbed her body until it was pinkened and squeaky. Her hair, bound atop her head by combs and pins she'd taken from her mother's vanity table just before her departure from Providence, would have to be washed in the evening. There was no time, now, to sit toweling it dry.

Quickly, she rose out of the water and reached for the scratchy white towel Miss Cunningham had so grudgingly provided. She would put the bulk of her money into the bank first, keeping back enough to buy new shoes; perhaps she would even splurge and purchase a pair made of kid leather—
with shiny patent toes. Of course, she would pay Miss Cunningham, too.

It was only as she went through her clothes, in search of something suitable for seeking work, that she remembered the trunks of other garments left behind at Griffin Fletcher's house. He had promised to put them on board the steamer before it sailed—but had he?

In an instant, Rachel knew that he had. Except where romantic escapades were concerned, he was a man of his word. She would ask after the trunks at the shed near the wharfs, where passage was paid and baggage was stored.

Hoping that the treasured garments were not lost, Rachel put on clean underthings, then a simple, navy blue skirt of crisp sateen, and a shirtwaist of azure silk. She braided her hair, pinning it securely into a very businesslike coronet. Then, after one final inspection before the mirror she'd cajoled from Miss Cunningham that morning, she went out.

When she made her entrance, Captain Frazier was sitting at the dining-room table, reading a crumpled copy of the
Seattle Times.
She did not miss the look of polite speculation in his eyes as he smiled at her.

“Good morning, Miss McKinnon,” he said.

Buoyed, as always, by the possibilities of a brand new day, Rachel curtsied slightly and smiled. It was a combination she had practiced many times in private, but had never had occasion to execute in public.

Captain Frazier seemed charmed. “Tell me you're not lowering yourself to join the work-a-day world, Rachel!”

Rachel allowed his improper use of her first name to pass unchallenged and sat down at her place, where eggs and toasted bread awaited her. “I must work, Captain Frazier,” she said lightly. “I don't have a choice.”

“Poppycock!” he said, a smile dancing in his eyes. “You should have a husband. A rich husband.”

Rachel suddenly felt again all the wretched loneliness she'd endured during the endless night. Her appetite fled, and she bounded out of her chair, her breakfast untouched, to take her handbag and her bonnet from the sideboard and rush toward the door.

But Captain Frazier's strong, sun-browned hand detained her in the hallway. “Rachel, forgive me. I didn't mean to upset you.”

Her voice trembled, though she willed it to be steady. It was
all she could do to meet the captain's sea blue eyes. “You didn't upset me—”

“Nonsense. I
did
upset you by making that insensitive remark about your needing a husband. It was rude behavior on my part, and I'm sorry.”

Rachel raised her chin and managed a soft, half-smile. “You simply insist on taking the blame for my bad manners, don't you? I shouldn't have bolted like that; it was silly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have so many things to attend to.”

Captain Frazier offered his arm. “Allow me, then.”

Rachel raised one eyebrow and withdrew a little. “Allow you to what?” she demanded.

The captain laughed uproariously. “Oh, Rachel, Rachel. Just when I decide you must surely have been educated in some prestigious eastern school, you ask such a question as that!”

Rachel looked into his mirth-crinkled face warily. “Are you making fun of me?”

Douglas Frazier brought himself skillfully under control. “Oh, no, my dear—never that. But tell me, if you are truly a lumberjack's daughter, as Miss Cunningham confides that you are, why are you so well-spoken?”

Rachel's tremendous pride made her bridle. “In the first place, Captain, there is nothing wrong with being a lumberjack's daughter! In the second, if I speak well, it is because I read well!”

“I see,” said the captain evenly, the humor still dancing in his eyes. “I've been a bore. Again, I apologize.”

Rachel was exasperated and ashamed of her outburst. “I really must leave—”

“As I must.” Captain Frazier executed a slight, courtly bow. “My carriage is here now, Rachel. Let me give you a ride down to the world of commerce and excitement.”

Rachel laughed, but at the same time, she was wondering if he was testing her, if he wanted to see whether or not she understood sophisticated words like “commerce.”

She shouldn't allow him to cart her off in his carriage; it wasn't proper. But her shoes did pinch so, even just standing there in the hallway. The thought of walking down that hill in them gave her pause.

“I would like very much to ride in your carriage, Captain,” she said loftily.

His chuckle was a low, rich sound, and his blue eyes twinkled
as he offered a gentlemanly arm. “Leave us expatriate,” he said.

“That means we're going now,” Rachel said, accepting the arm he offered.

His chuckle grew to a warm laugh. “Of course it does,” he said.

The morning was bright, and Miss Cunningham's cherry tree was a puff of pink, translucent blossoms. In the distance, Elliott Bay sparkled like a huge sapphire dappled with silver and gold.

Captain Frazier's carriage, probably hired, was a splendid sight, too. It glistened in the sunshine, and it was drawn by four coal black horses.

Rachel's spirits lifted as the fine carriage rumbled and jolted over Seattle's questionable streets, toward the waterfront, and she allowed them to carry her high, knowing that the night would bring less enjoyable emotions.

That morning the noisy bustle of the city seemed cheerful, rather than intimidating. After all, she was going to buy new shoes—and perhaps, a book to read.

But the first order of business, even before opening an account at the bank, was to find out whether or not her trunks were being held at the steamboat office.

They were. Rachel was delighted and relieved, but she felt a remnant of the sadness that had plagued her during the night, too. She shook off the image of Griffin Fletcher carrying those trunks aboard the
Statehood
and smiled up at Captain Frazier, who had offered to have his driver deliver the cumbersome trunks to the Cunningham house.

She thanked him.

Boldly, Captain Frazier took both her hands in his. “Will you be all right, now?”

Rachel nodded, thinking with pleasure of the money in her handbag, of the kid leather shoes she was going to buy, of the job she would surely find.

“Good,” said the captain, gently. And then he turned and strode away, along the waterfront.

Rachel found the shoes for which she'd been longing in a Front Street shop, and she bought them proudly. They like felt gentle hands caressing her feet as she walked along the wooden sidewalk, full of the certainty that today would be a good day.

Because it seemed like a fortunate omen, Rachel deposited most of her money in the Commerce Bank. The memory of her
silly exchange with Captain Frazier, in the boardinghouse hallway, made her smile.

From the bank, she proceeded to a well-stocked general store, where she purchased a novel, scented soap, and a packet of hair pins. At the last minute, she added writing paper, a pen, and ink to her other things. Perhaps, after a decent length of time, she would write to Jonas, thank him properly for his kindness in giving her so many lovely clothes, and apologize for leaving the picnic without an explanation. She would write to Molly, too, she decided, because Molly was, after a fashion, a friend.

The search for work, as it turned out, was far less enjoyable than the shopping expedition had been. In fact, it was downright discouraging.

In the very bank where she had been such a welcome depositor, she was crisply turned away because she could not typewrite. At the mattress factory, it was decided that she was far too delicate to do such work. In a seedy tearoom, where a sign indicated that a girl was wanted to wait tables, the proprietor was too forward and implied that a plainer young woman was required to keep his female customers happy.

By noon, Rachel was feeling patently desperate. It seemed that she didn't know how to do anything worthwhile, and though she was educated, she couldn't claim formal schooling beyond the eighth grade. She had learned her letters in one place and her numbers in another, and when a crate of musty old books had come temporarily into her possession by the good graces of a kindly schoolmaster, she had pieced the letters together until they made words. By knowing the meanings of just a few, she had discerned the definitions of others.

But she had no specific trade.

Rachel was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, near tears, when it occurred to her that she had been very rash in thinking that there would be a job waiting for her here.

“Rachel?”

She looked up and saw, with abject delight, the smiling, concerned face of Captain Frazier. “Douglas!” she cried out, so relieved to see him that she forgot he hadn't given her permission to use his first name.

He took her arm and deftly squired her out of the mainstream of passersby and into a clean, brightly decorated restaurant. “I am relieved,” he said jovially, as they sat down at a table covered with a floral cloth. “I feared you intended to call
me ‘Captain' all my days. Tell me, does that ominous little frown mean that you haven't found work?”

Rachel nodded miserably. “I've asked everywhere, it seems. Either they want me to typewrite, or they want me to be bigger and stronger. In a tearoom on Marion Street, they wanted me to be uglier!”

There was sympathy in Douglas's laugh, and one of his hands reached out to shelter both of hers and still the nervous motion of her fingers. “What kind of work would you like to do, Rachel?”