Rachel Donnelly (35 page)

The music stopped.

Christie blinked under the shooting prisms of the glittering chandeliers. She’d danced an entire waltz in Captain Jackson’s arms, hardly realizing he was there.

“I think we both could do with a glass of champagne,” he said as he led her from the floor. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Beaton and Nat glided toward her, talking and laughing.

“Mr. Randall tells me he must leave. I told him he couldn’t possibly do so without having a dance with you first.” Mrs. Beaton beamed, flicking open her silver fan. “You’re both our guests of honor. It’s only fitting you get out there and show the rest of them how it’s done. Oh dear! Oh my!” She waved across the dance floor toward the entrance. “There’s Maxine! I must get to her before anyone else does. She cannot hear this story from another person’s lips.” Mrs. Beaton hustled off in a swish of silk.

It was the opportunity Christie had been waiting for.

She pulled the roll of bills from her handbag, shoved it into Nat’s hand. “Thank you, but I can’t possibly accept this.”

His mouth flattened. “You’d take Christopher’s loan over mine.”

“No!”

“I hope you realize what strings are attached.” Nat’s sapphire eyes turned to midnight. “He’s in love with you, you know.”

“How can he be in love with me?” Obviously Nat was mistaken. “He hardly knows me.”

“Fine, he’s infatuated with you.” Nat flashed a wry smile. “And by taking his money, you’re leading him on. Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t a spare dime to his name. Everything he has is invested in his boat. If you take his money, he’ll have nothing left for emergencies.”

“I have no intention of taking his money!” It stuck in her craw that Nat imagined her so irresponsible. “Or yours, for that matter.”

“Don’t be such a stubborn little fool. It’s just a loan.” He pressed the roll of money back into her hand. “You can wire it back to my bank in Sacramento when you get home — with interest if you like.”

She slapped the money back into his hand. “I don’t want it.”

“What do you plan to do?” His sapphire eyes sparked. “Work your way home to Boston?” His gaze bore into her. “I would have never thought you were the sort to let pride get in the way of what you want.”

Christie stiffened. “I’ll wire my father.”

“And what will you do in the meantime?” Nat tilted his dark head, slicing her a hard look. “Live off of Christopher’s charity, while he grows more attached to you every day?”

“I lived off your charity.” She turned to go.

He grabbed her by the arm. “That’s different.”

“How is it different?” she expelled in exasperation.

He shrugged. “You were a witness. I had a responsibility to look after you — keep you safe.”

Something sank in the pit of her belly. “In other words, you didn’t want me there.” She sucked in a calming breath, realizing her voice was rising. The guests around them were beginning to stare. “You did it out of duty. Perhaps I should be grateful you didn’t marry me out of duty as well, like you did Heather.”

He went perfectly still.

She wished she could call the words back. But it was too late. If she were to explain herself, he might think she expected an offer of marriage — or worse, that she was a lovesick fool.

His gaze narrowed. “Yes, you should be grateful. Because if I had married you, I’d march you home right now and wipe that sassy look off your face.”

“I don’t doubt it at all,” she whispered back fiercely. “Since that’s your usual way of handling things — with violence.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.” He crooked one dark brow. “But in my experience, a cold woodshed never tamed a woman like a warm bed.”

She opened her mouth, but had no air to reply.

Even if she could, it was too late.

He was gone — striding across the room without looking back.

“Oh my, he looks fit to be tied.” Mrs. Beaton hustled up beside her. “I hope my pressuring you to dance had nothing to do with it?”

“No.” Christie said, finally finding her voice albeit a little squeaky. “I fear he’s angry with me.”

“Angry with you?” Mrs. Beaton scoffed. “Whatever for?”

Christie sighed. “I wouldn’t accept his money.” Of course there were other reasons, too delicate and private to mention. “I fear I’ve insulted him.”

“Money!” Mrs. Beaton gave a depreciative wave with her fan. “Why didn’t you say so? My land! Mr. Beaton and I have scads of it. How much do you need?”

Christie couldn’t help but smile at her ingenuous disclosure. However, it couldn’t detract from her embarrassment, finding herself financially deficient in a glittering room full of San Francisco’s elite. Her first instinct was to put the idea aside. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly take your money. The robbery has left me short, that’s all.” No need for Mrs. Beaton to know her own cousin had taken the money right from under her nose. “I’m certain I have enough to get by until I wire father.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Beaton’s voice rose to soprano. “Of course you can. You saved my life. It’s the least Mr. Beaton and I can do.”

“Well … it would only be a loan.” Christie hated to accept a dime, but what else could she do. “My father will reimburse you as soon as I get home.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”

“I must insist. I couldn’t take it unless you agree.”

”Very well.” Mrs. Beaton winked. “You drive a hard bargain. But if that’s what you want, that’s what it shall be.”

Christie smiled in relief. “Thank you.”

“My only condition is that you stay and visit us for a few days — unless you object to spending time with an old relic like me.” Mrs. Beaton’s eyes twinkled with devilment. “I’m not nearly as bossy as Mr. Beaton would have you believe.”

“No, I mean, yes, that would be delightful.”

“Bossy!” Mr. Beaton poked his head between them. “Of course she is. How do you think she contrived a crowd like this on such short notice?”

• • •

Mrs. Beaton’s offer turned out to be the answer to Christie’s prayers. She scribbled a brief letter to Leigh explaining her whereabouts, and a man was dispatched to fetch her trunk that very night.

The Beatons made it their business to make her feel right at home. Mrs. Beaton pampered her beyond repair, assigning her personal maid, Gerta, to attend to Christie’s every whim in her large airy bedchamber on the second floor of their stately red brick mansion. The plush carpet rose as thick as summer grass beneath her feet. The eiderdown on the enormous canopy bed felt so light and fluffy, she might have been sleeping under a cloud.

In truth, she was so tired at the end of each day it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d burrowed under a pile of leaves. Mrs. Beaton possessed a tireless constitution. She packed each day with events — shopping, luncheons, the theatre. Before Christie knew it, a few days had turned into weeks.

“Miss Wallace will be badly in need of a holiday from you before long,” Mr. Beaton declared over breakfast one morning. “Give the poor girl some slack. What makes you think she wants to be dragged to every dog and pony show in the city?”

Mrs. Beaton pierced him with a long glare from the other end of the impeccably decked mahogany table. “Don’t be such a miserable old fart.”

“Did you hear that?” Mr. Beaton inquired in mock-grave tones. “How many husbands have to swallow that with their tea and toast?”

“Really, I don’t mind,” Christie said. “I’m having a lovely time.”

Mrs. Beaton’s laughter burbled like a fountain. “There! You see. Now where was I, yes, dinner at eight as usual. Be home early to change, my dear. The Gilberts and the Nasmiths are coming. And someone else, but I can’t think who … ”

“Mr. Randall?” Mr. Beaton announced.

Christie choked on her wine.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Beaton lifted his head from wiping his whiskered lips on his linen napkin. “He won’t be able to make it I’m afraid. Sends his regards however.”

Her heart sank.

“What a shame!” Mrs. Beaton declared with feeling. “We shall be uneven now. But I suppose he’s still after that Everett outlaw.”

Christie hadn’t set eyes on Nat since the ball, but had assumed from brief snatches of conversation he was still in town. Not that she expected to see him, after the harsh words they’d exchanged at the Beaton’s ball. Still, it hurt that he hadn’t dropped by to ask after her welfare. Perhaps, it was for the best. If he had no tender feelings for her, it was better to cut the cord now before her feelings became further entangled.

It had been foolish to wait — to allow the Beatons to talk her into accepting their hospitality this long.

He wasn’t coming.

It was silly to think that he would.

What had she expected?

That he might sweep in the door, drop to one knee and offer for her hand?

It was over.

It was time to go home.

The dinner was grand.

The guests were grand.

But then, Mrs. Beaton did everything in a grand manner. San Francisco was a sparkling lively place, and the Beaton’s mansion was at the center of it. But it wasn’t Dos Almas, and it wasn’t home.

Wherever Christie looked, eyes seemed to be staring back at her, including the half eaten trout on her plate. Every face seemed to hold a secret smile. Are you waiting for him, they seemed to be saying, you poor lovesick fool?

Perhaps she had been thinking of Nat when she dressed for dinner in the white tulle gown, when Mrs. Beaton’s maid wound her curls round her head like a crown, when she’d surrendered to him in her dreams the night before. It was hardly a crime — just plain silly. Why would he miraculously appear, after declining the Beaton’s invitation?

It was foolish to imagine he would, but then remaining here in San Francisco these past weeks had been just as foolish. It was time to go home — back to Boston, and the people she held dear.

The shuffling of chairs signaled the gentleman’s departure from the table.

“Come, my dear,” Mrs. Beaton said taking her by the arm. “We’ll adjourn to the parlor. The men can have their nasty cigars.” When they reached the foyer she stopped. “Oh land! In all the excitement I forgot to tell you. Captain Jackson called this morning.” She hustled to the half-moon table by the door. “He asked me to give you this letter.”

Christie stared down at it with surprise. “It’s from my sister Meagan. But how did Captain Jackson come by it?”

“He just returned from Sacramento. It seems he patronizes the same bank as you do. Isn’t that lucky?”

“Yes very.” Christie smoothed it lovingly in her hand. Uncle Will must have forwarded it. Bless his sweet dear soul.

“Well, I can see you’re itching to open it. Go ahead. Take it into the morning room and have a look see. You can join us later.”

“Thank you,” Christie gushed. “I won’t be a moment.”

“Take your time. I shan’t be starved for company. Lavinia’s tongue flaps like a sheet in the wind, and Frances, well you’ve met her. She’s bound and bent to disagree with every word. It will be my job to keep them both on the straight and narrow. But what are friends for? Join us whenever you’re ready, preferably before my eyes glaze over.”

Christie broke the seal before reaching the morning room door. She hastened to the writing desk by the window, unfolding the parchment as she went.

Christie dropped the parchment in her lap.

Mrs. Beaton discovered her some time later in the very same spot. “No, no, don’t get up. They’re gone, and not a moment too soon. Frances was being particularly obstinate and disagreeable, and Lavinia hasn’t the stamina these days to put up with it, not after nursing the twins with the shingles and finding a hair in her soup. I feared I might be called upon to judge a round of fisticuffs.” Mrs. Beaton stopped to draw breath. “What is it, my dear? You look a fright.”

Christie blinked in an attempt to clear the amazement from her brain. “My sister is threatening to elope.” Her voice sounded hollow and distant even to her own ears.

“Is that what she wrote to tell you? No wonder you look so numb.” Mrs. Beaton took the chair next to her, folding her hands in her lap. “Gotten herself into a pickle, has she.”

Christie raised her eyes with a start. “No! I mean, at least I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “No, absolutely not.”

“Seventeen, didn’t you say? Hmmm, old enough to know her own mind, but too young to realize where it will take her. Who is this man she’s bent on running off with?”

“Doctor Turner.” Christie took a long shuddering breath. “A close family friend — very close.” Her voice trailed off.

“I assume your father has declined his consent and that’s why they’re bent on running off.”

Christie nodded.

“What do you suppose his reasons are?”

“I can think of several.” The shock of the letter began to seep away. Christie drew a long fortifying breath. “They were presented to me quite clearly when I told my father I might marry him.”

“Ohhhh, I see.” Mrs. Beaton made an effort to compose her scandalized expression. “Well, that does complicate matters. Does your sister know of your feelings for this man?”

“I have no feelings for him,” Christie said firmly, smiling to reassure her. “I mean, I thought I did once, but I was wrong. I realized that when I came to Nevada.”

“I should say so,” Mrs. Beaton expelled stoutly. “This Doctor Turner sounds like a proper philanderer, if you ask me — dallying with one sister after another. Thank goodness you didn’t marry him! More’s the pity for your sister Meagan.”

“Yes.” Christie drew herself up in indignation. “Had he not kissed me, I would have never thought to extend our relationship beyond friendship. If anything, he is a very fickle man.”