Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (15 page)
Matthew sat, slouched, in the hard-back chair, eyes closed. But he sensed Sidney Lunt at his elbow, and the drugged boy sleeping in the bunk against the wall.
The proprietor came in with his lamp. Matthew stared into its light. “My pupils. Did they get smaller?” he asked softly.
“Easy to see, in eyes light as yours — yes, sir.”
“Is that good, Matt?” Sidney Lunt asked.
“Yes.”
“No concussion,” the proprietor explained.
Matthew closed his eyes again, the pain behind them lessening with the news. “Could I have a drink?” he asked.
“Bottle’s at your elbow, sir. Along with clean bandages. I threw McPeal out for his pack to fetch and carry. I don’t allow such dealings in here, not since I took over. Bricked up the passage to the tunnel, too.”
Matthew remembered being dragged through a network of tunnels before they reached the
Madeline
. He’d thought them nightmares. “Oh? Good,” he said.
Madeline
. He’d thought them nightmares. “Oh? Good,” he said.
“What are you two talking about?” Sidney asked.
“Old times,” Matthew told him.
The proprietor put out his hand. Sidney Lunt took it. “Ben Morris, at your service, gentlemen. That is, if you’re not police sent by City Hall dealers, or looking to open a French Restaurant.”
“Now I’m lost,” Matthew muttered.
“Bribery or prostitution. Neither,” Sidney answered for them.
“All right, then. The boy’s got my protection for the night. I appreciate the help in getting the message to McPeal and his kind, even if you fellows are of the cloth.”
The door closed quietly behind him. “Of the —”
“It’s the black,” Matthew said.
“Well, I’m damned!” Sidney Lunt laughed as he poured Matthew’s glass full. “Why didn’t you tell me your plans before you absconded from that deadly dinner, Matt? The Barbary Coast’s not a place to go alone, not even for you.”
Matthew swallowed past his pain. A long way past, he realized, coughing. He squinted at the bottle in the editor’s hand. “Christ almighty, what is that?”
Sidney brought the bottle closer. That only blurred the label further. “It’s St. Croix rum. The best, one hundred fifty proof. You must have done our Mr. Morris a favor all right.” He refilled the glass. “There, it’s helping already, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Matthew wasn’t sure if he felt less, or just cared about it less. He looked past the editor, to the sleeping boy. He cared
about the boy. “Sidney, what was happening to him, is that something you and Olana could write up? In your newspaper? Would that help stop it?”
about the boy. “Sidney, what was happening to him, is that something you and Olana could write up? In your newspaper? Would that help stop it?”
“If we can get him to talk to us.”
“Olana could. There’s a story for her. Isn’t it?”
“I’ll leave word to have the boy come around in the morning.”
“To ’Lana’s place. Her story.”
“Hers! On my honor! Can we take your damned coat off now?”
“What? Oh …” Matthew looked down at his bloody hand. Then he squinted up at Sidney Lunt, who was now two-headed. No. The giant was back. “Who are you?” he whispered.
“Serif the Magnificent.”
“I know. But who are you?”
Sidney laughed. “That is his name, Matt. He used to wrestle Nile crocodiles for Mr. Barnum’s circus. I bought off his contract when I went into the newspaper business,” he continued, as they worked Matthew out of his coat. “He’s the perfect companion for the Barbary Coast. Wish I could bring him into boardrooms. Matt, your arm’s still bleeding.”
Olana’s editor’s face was tinged green. Following his glance, Matthew inspected the wounds. “Almost stopped. Pour a little rum on it, will you, Sidney?”
“Rum?”
“You said it was good.”
“To drink!”
“Have one first, then.” He smiled, remembering when he told Olana the same thing.
Her editor laughed. “You’re a good drunk, Matt.”
“Ain’t nowhere near drunk! Pour that damned rum, will you, before I bleed to death?”
The color had now drained completely from Lunt’s face, but he did as he was told.
“It’s not bad,” the ranger tried to reassure him, as he cleaned the slashes with the gauze Ben Morris had left. “See? Two wounds, both superf — supflufic —”
“Superficial?”
“I can say that!” he insisted. Too loud. The tingling in his fingers warned him before the room went black. When it came into focus again Sidney was pressing the gauze to the worst slash, and Matthew was lying like a child in the giant’s arms.
“You pay him well?” he heard himself whisper.
“Much better than the circus.”
“Good.”
Sidney lifted the patch of white and red. Clotted. Serif wound the gauze around his arm. Sidney poured another drink. Matthew swallowed it down. “Next time out, the three of us — yes, Serif? The three musket … mouseket … Shit, I
am
drunk. Can you get me home, Sidney? ’Lana’s going to want my head on a platter.”
am
drunk. Can you get me home, Sidney? ’Lana’s going to want my head on a platter.”
Olana tried to sleep, but once she heard the gentle tinkling of three chimes from her bedroom’s silver clock, she was sure that Matthew had caught a late train back to his trees. She thought of her father, grateful for the entertaining diversion she had been at dinner. But she hadn’t felt deserving of his gratitude, for it was her temper at Patsy that had driven Matthew away.
Once the house was quiet Olana rose from her bed, took a lighted candle, and brought it to the solarium, where she almost tripped over Matthew, crumpled beneath the sassafras tree. She went to her knees. When she tried to remove the rum bottle cradled in his arms, his eyes shot open.
“Here, goddamn it, I want to stay here! Oh …” A wide, slow grin replaced his scowl. “Morning, ’Lana. You smell like lilies this morning.”
“And you smell like —”
He spit into the carefully manicured ground. “Didn’t bother me none, even when you smelled like death, woman! Always liked you fine just the same!”
Olana saw blood stains. “Matthew,” she whispered, “you’re hurt.”
He only looked annoyed. “Don’t fret none on my account.”
When he put his head back against the tree, she winced at the purple bruise above his eye. “I like it here. I’m staying here,” he insisted. “I can see the stars, up through the roof, can you?”
When he put his head back against the tree, she winced at the purple bruise above his eye. “I like it here. I’m staying here,” he insisted. “I can see the stars, up through the roof, can you?”
“Yes,” she said, probing his side with cold fingers. He smiled at her touch. How could he smile?
“I went back, ’Lana.”
“Back where?”
“The place where they left me, when I was a boy. Left me to be preyed upon. They were my kin! What had I ever done to them?”
“Nothing, darling,” Olana found herself saying, though she wanted to run away from his sudden, helpless shuddering, from the tears streaking down his face. He buried his head at her waist, fisting the folds of her gown with one hand. Olana stroked around the bruise until his breathing became regular again.
“Gran, when I could finally tell her, she made me into Joseph of old, being sold into slavery by brothers … making me the hero of my own life. Again.”
“You are, Matthew.”
“No. But I had to go back. And there was another boy there, sure enough, and I couldn’t let it happen again. Shit,” he raised his head, looked around, perplexed. “What did I do with that boy?”
“Boy?”
“Wait. I remember. Mr. Morris’s got him. Till tomorrow. What happens then? What am I supposed to do with him? I can’t even look after myself.”
“I’ll look after you tonight,” she offered quietly. Olana put his good arm around her shoulder. He stumbled to his feet and she led him unsteadily from the solarium.
He seemed blissfully unaware of the strain he was on her, but she couldn’t even work up an ounce of anger about that. “Say ’Lana, you ever meet that crocodile man?” he asked.
“Let’s try another set of steps now.”
“He works for Sidney —”
“Sidney Lunt?”
“Sure Sidney Lunt! Hey, who’s drunk here, you or me?”
“Matthew Hart!”
She stopped, eased her hold on him to push the hair out of her eyes. He slipped out of her grasp. “Matthew!”
He drifted precariously over the landing before she caught him again. She wanted to cry out her relief, but rested her head against his chest instead. He tucked his precious bottle under his arm then stroked the sweat from her brow.
“It’s been so hard to keep my hands off you, ’Lana. I got to take on the waterfront lately.”
His knees began to buckle. “Oh, Matthew,” she pleaded, “Not yet — we’re almost there.”
“Where?”
“Your rooms.”
“Circle. Under the doorknob,” he mumbled.
“Yes, I know.” She pushed open the door.
She heaved him onto the bed, took his shoes off.
“’Lana, what are you — don’t do that,” he pleaded. “I won’t be able to look at you come tomorrow.”
“Oh hush, you great baby,” she admonished. “And you’d better look at me come morning, Matthew Hart, and be prepared to tell me of this crocodile man when you’re fully sober!”
His eyelids flickered. “Yes’m,” he promised.
Once she’d unbuttoned the braces, his trousers came off easily. Olana only allowed herself a brief glance at those long legs and hard muscled thighs. She felt her cheeks flame, and quickly covered him.
She found his nightshirt and gently replaced the bloodied remains of slashed coat and shirt with its soft comfort. It was easy, he was so supple and barely conscious. Only his iron grip on the rum bottle remained firm. She leaned him back into the pillows, easing the bottle from his arms. A tiny amount of its amber liquid had survived. She smiled, placing it on the bedside table, then kissed his mouth while it still had life.
“Damnation,” he muttered.
“Good night, Matthew.”
“Good night, ’Laney.”
She closed in on his face again. “What did you say? Matthew, what did you call me? Who told you that name? Mrs. Cole? Was it Mrs. Cole?”
“Cold?” he murmured, then winced as he tried to lift the covers with his injured arm.
“No, darling, I’m not cold,” she said, but slid in beside him anyway, silently thanking whoever dressed his wounds. She nested herself in the crook of his undamaged arm, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. Then she thought she heard another, faint heartbeat. She sat up, looked into the parts of the room in darkness. What was that? The clack of steel wheels? She thought of her brother, his trains, his love. And of Matthew Hart, his relatives and their cruelty. She slipped out of the massive bed.
Ghosts. They’d shared their ghosts tonight, Olana thought as she closed the nursery door behind her. She was startled by the sight of Patsy coming around the corner with her glassed candle.
“Miss Olana?”
“No. I mean, you didn’t see me. Here. Now.”
The maid smiled, trying to hide her teeth. “He’s come home?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Good night then, miss.”
“Patsy?”
“Miss?”
“Mr. Hart and I — we didn’t. I mean, it wasn’t … as it appears.”
“I wouldn’t tell on you, either way.”
Then Olana did a thing she hadn’t done since her nurse left the household. She hugged a servant.
Matthew Hart opened one eye to a gelatinous mass that didn’t look any more appetizing for the fine-cut crystal glass that contained it. He groaned. Mrs. Cole poured drops of the rum into her concoction.“Lastly, a small amount of the offending brew, which, I see, is all that’s left, Matthew.”
He closed the eye and groaned again. Her hand cupped the back of his head. She held the glass to his lips. “Drink it all in one swallow if you can, sir, before your head leaves the pillow.”
He managed in three swallows, which still seemed to please her. It tasted vile, but in seconds the soreness of his ribs was dominating the churning in his stomach and pain in his head.
“Better?” she asked softly.
“Miraculous.” It was his own voice — submerged, but sober.
The woman smiled. “I’ve written up the remedy’s ingredients for your book, in my best hand.”
“Thank you.” Matthew rolled to his good side and squinted toward the slit in the heavy drapes.
“What hour is it?”
“Just past nine.”
“Nine?”
He sat up, yanked the covers aside, but the cook held her hand against his chest. “Miss Olana says you need some care,” she said, deftly gathering his nightshirt as if she’d done it every day of his life. Matthew didn’t even remember putting the shirt on. It smelled of lilies. Olana. “She’s been downstairs all morning,” the cook continued, “tearing sheets right alongside the rest of us so I can bind — Sweet Bridget, you look like someone took a mallet to you, sir!”
The ugly bruises brought the night’s events through Matthew’s mind in jumbled succession.
“Mrs. Cole, did a boy come by? Named Seely, or Seldon or —”
“Selby, sir. Here since first light, yes. Olana’s been keeping his presence a secret like the rest of us. Never thought she’d do that, after you deserted her parents’ dinner party last night. Do sit back, Matthew, she says I’m to take no grousing from you.”
He gave himself over to her care, the way he had for the claw marks on his back. “If this keeps up, I’ll owe you my fee, Mrs. Cole,” he managed to gasp out as she wound the swaddling cloth.
“Nonsense. That boy’s saying you got damaged in his defense. Poor lamb, he’s just eighteen, lost his mother to pneumonia, then preyed on by those waterfront jackals.”
She wiped his forehead with her apron, and discovered the effect of McPeal’s first iron strike. “Glory be, a goose egg on your comely face as well? The vipers! You are a fine man, Mr. Hart.”
“I’m a drunken idiot, Mrs. Cole. But you have a favorable impression of the boy?”
“Oh, he’s so eager to be showing you his worth! Wouldn’t touch a morsel of food until he’d worked for it. Patsy’s feeding him half the larder now! There’s even some bloom back in her cheeks.”
“Is there? Well. Maybe this wasn’t such a fool idea.” Matthew Hart smiled for the first time since he’d opened his eyes on the day.
He watched Olana pace the length of the servant’s dining table as he sipped Mrs. Cole’s strongest coffee.
“But, Matthew, where is this Selby boy from?”
“Ireland, I think.”
“You think? And his references?”
“Listen, darlin’, the folks down here are doting on him like a prodigal son. Your father’s looking for someone to replace the footman, isn’t he? And ’Lana, Patsy likes him.”
Her fine brows arched. “And why is that so important?”
“Patsy needs someone. She and the footman —”
“Had been engaged two years! This boy walked in this morning. First impressions —”
“Are the best. Why, the first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful —”
“Liar! Your trees already hold that place.” She turned on her heel. “And I first thought you an ill-mannered boor.”
He grinned. “There, see?”
“Matthew!” But she was smiling.
“You’ll talk to your father?”
“Yes. Only do go away. Wait for Papa in the library. They will not understand why I’m not furious with you.”
He studied her face. “Why aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. Last night you trusted me. Didn’t you, Matthew?”
He slipped his fingers through hers and brought their clasped hands to his lips. But his eyes closed before he let her see the faint suspicion cross his mind, suspicion that she was looking to launch her journalistic career by turning what was left of his family to ashes.
“Matt!” James Whittaker greeted him with an outstretched hand. “My wife sends her regrets. One of her ill mornings.”
Matthew Hart winced as Olana’s father reached into his cigar box, hoping he wouldn’t light up. He was having an ill morning himself.
“Olana tells me you have a prospect for my missing footman!”
“Yes, sir.”
“An Irishman?”
“Yes.”
“That won’t win Mrs. Whittaker’s favor. She’s determined to Frenchify the whole staff, but she keeps getting the Irish. This isn’t the East coast, I tell her, where she can pluck them out of French Canada. Has the lad experience?”
“No. But he means well, and is very hardworking, according to downstairs.”
“Well then, let’s give him a go.” He discarded his cigar, sniffed at another. “Now, tell me why you deserted us last night?”
“I apologize —”
“Oh, save your apologies for the ladies, or shall I say for my wife, as you already seem back in Olana’s good graces. You should have seen her playacting you last night! Most amusing, a convincing twin! Right down to that perplexed look before you say —”
“Sir?”
“Exactly!” James Whittaker roared out a laugh that reverberated inside the ranger’s aching head. “How do you do it, Matt? Keep that daughter of mine sweet-dispositioned?”
“We have our moments.”
“But they are just that — moments, not eternities of recriminations and demands.”
“What can she demand of me?”
The cigar he’d been rolling stilled between James Whittaker’s fingers. “So it’s my wealth responsible for her difficult nature?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Or is it how I use my money? Do I spoil her as I spoil land, as I waste your precious trees?”
“I never —”
“She did it for you last night — my own child, lecturing me.”
“Mr. Whittaker —”
“I see how you look over the acres of stumps, how you cringe at the sight of the mills.”
Shit. This wasn’t fair. What had Olana started without even
telling him? “It’s more the sound. I’m not used to much noise, vibration. I mean no disrespect.”
telling him? “It’s more the sound. I’m not used to much noise, vibration. I mean no disrespect.”
“Disrespect be damned! What would you do with my land?”
Matthew met the man’s direct gaze with one of his own. Think first, then speak calmly, he reminded himself, wishing for the life of him that he’d gone easier on the rum. “I wouldn’t harvest every tree, Mr. Whittaker. That would reduce the risk of flooding, of losing the topsoil. And where I cut, I’d plant.”
“Plant what?”
“More trees.”
“You’d have me bankrupt in a year’s time!”
Matthew grinned, despite the pain it caused. “No, I wouldn’t. You’d never trust me with such a hare-brained scheme to begin with.”
“Damned right! Damned —” James Whittaker hooked his thumbs in his vest, and laughed. “I don’t believe I want to knock any business sense into you, son. You’re a great relief from the likes of that stiff-necked Moore, no matter what new markets he’s opening up.” He bit off the end of still another cigar. “And who, while you were out breaking skulls up and down the Barbary Coast, asked me for permission to court Olana.”
“Oh?” Matthew Hart felt the cloth around his middle tightening.
“Surprised?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it would prove a good match?”
“It’s not my decision.”
“I know that, son! I’m asking your opinion, advice.”
“No, then.”
“And why not?”
“I don’t think Moore likes women.” James Whittaker leaned toward him, looking baffled. “And ’Lana shocks him.” More. More reasons. Think. That one was no good, it’d made him smile.
“My daughter shocks everyone, Matt. I’m afraid that has limited her prospective marriage partners. Even her … adventure with you has tarnished her in the sights of some.”
“Those that ain’t worthy of her consideration, sir.”
“Perhaps. But the world is not as … uncomplicated for her as it is for you, son.”
Why? Why in hell not? Matthew wanted to shake the man. They weren’t talking about trees and timber. They were talking about Olana. She wasn’t one of his holdings, part of his complicated business.
“Perhaps Olana’s trying to be the son we lost,” James Whittaker continued. “Why doesn’t she understand she’s ruining her chances?”
“Chances of what?”
“Providing me a grandson, of course. A male heir to carry on!”
“Carry what on?”
“The family, the business. That’s her place, of course, if she truly means to please us. Even an obstinate, free-thinking girl like Olana must calm down, put away silly notions and take joy in her home and family.”
“And give you an heir.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“No. If it’s her choice too. If she’s happy.”
“Choice? There is no choice!”
“You don’t think Olana has her own mind?”
“Of course, of course she does. It must be guided, that’s all.” He laughed uneasily. “You make me sound the complete tyrant, Matt! This match has advantages. Moore manages all of Mrs. Whittaker’s charitable trusts without taking a penny in salary! He’s a seasoned traveler — has sold the products of my mills the country over. Soon it may be the world over. Grateful buyers have provided the specimens you dote on in the solarium.
“Now, as to Olana’s attraction to him, or her lack of it — I’m not insensitive that every young girl has a heart’s desire in these matters. But I can’t put him off forever, can I? Especially now that her independent notions and behavior have parlayed her into a tightening circle of prospects, despite the dowry she brings to —”
“Damnation! Why does it always come down to money?”
His shout hurt his bruised muscle wall so much he clutched inside his vest. James Whittaker watched him in the deafening silence.
“And what should it come down to, Matt?” he asked quietly as his wife entered the room.
“Ma’am,” Matthew whispered, reaching for the brim of a hat that wasn’t there. As he closed the door behind him, he heard her scandalized tone.
“James, what on earth —”
“Ha!” her husband trumpeted, “I finally found a subject that fires out Mr. Hart to undisguised anger, madame!”
Matthew Hart let his hand drift inside linen, press cool against his aching ribs. He looked around the servant’s parlor. Both Olana and Sidney Lunt waited patiently. But he couldn’t get his mind past the conversation with her father. Did she know Moore wanted her? Olana had more in common with Sidney Lunt than Darius Moore. They were closer in age, too. And, hell, he liked Sidney. Why doesn’t she marry him, if it’s so all fired important? He’d never hurt her, she’d be safe with him. The boy standing between them shifted feet. Seldon? Selby. Matthew felt too much the hypocrite to be as stern as he’d planned.
“If we can clear your debts, get you started in the position for a trial period —”
“There won’t be any end to my thanks, master.”
“I ain’t your master. And what I did last night was for me, you understand?”
“No, sir.”
He exhaled, then felt Olana’s hand cover his, forgetting her usual decorum before the servants, before her editor. Something had changed since he’d come to San Francisco. She’d become his friend. She mattered, beyond their diverse backgrounds, beyond the beliefs wedging them apart. He would always care what happened to her. And Darius Moore must not happen to her. Damn. It was still not his business. Why had he shouted like a madman at
her father? Could Olana be pressured? No. She would never marry Darius Moore. She had too much sense. That should be contenting him.
her father? Could Olana be pressured? No. She would never marry Darius Moore. She had too much sense. That should be contenting him.
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