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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

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BOOK: Waltzing In Ragtime
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“Matt! What on earth happened to you?”
“Happened?”
“We were meeting at the theater, then Delaney’s, remember?”
“No. I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Well, put on some lights will you?” he demanded, then rushed around, a black and white blur, doing it himself. “Jesus, what a sight you are! Are you ill?”
“No, no. I just needed a favor of Alisdair and I thought he might be here at the
Chronicle
and he was and I am.”
“What?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“For him to finish. Did I miss supper?”
“Matt, it’s past midnight.”
“Is it? Shit, I didn’t leave a note for Annie.”
“We told her we were going to see
The Importance of Being Earnest,
then to Delaney’s. We told her this morning.”
“Oh. That’s right.”
“We tracked you to the Whittakers’, then to your place. Dora and your grandmother, they both said to leave you alone. I don’t think it was such a good idea. Olana’s worried herself into —”
The sight of the disheveled Alisdair coming out of the darkroom made Sidney’s words faint, indistinct.
“I think this one is as close as I’m going to get to the original without going blind, Matty,” Alisdair said, offering the print.
“It’s fine.” Yes, fine, distinct, he knew that even without his spectacles. Matthew raised his head. “What do we owe you?”
The photographer pulled down his sleeves, considering. “One of your grandmother’s pies,” he decided. “Peach.” Alisdair returned to the darkroom as Sidney Lunt peered around Matthew Hart’s shoulder.
“Good lord,” he said.
“I gave mine to Dora. Gran had the only other copy. Photographer’s studio burned down soon after, so there was no negative. I need it. On me. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Well. We got a new negative now. Alisdair made one, by taking a photograph of Annie’s photograph. Plenty of photographs, until one was clear, almost as clear as the original. Everything will be all right.” He stood, but the room would not stay still. “Sidney,” he whispered. “I feel a little strange.”
“Sit. Alisdair’s used to breathing these infernal fumes, but you’re not,” he said, easing him down on the sofa. “I’ll open the window.”
“No!”
“What?”
“Don’t open it! It will spread.”
“What will —”
“The fire.”
“There’s no fire.”
“A storm. A storm of fire. Nothing. Nothing you can do. Bring up the hand-cranked presses — the ones in the cellar.”
“All right. I’ll do that. Close your eyes, Matt.”
But the firestorm raged there too, behind his eyes. Did he call out? Shaking. Is that why both men anchored him now? Don’t, please. No. Different men. Kind ones. Not like on the
Madeline,
so long ago. He smiled at the shy, wild-haired photographer and felt, suddenly, immeasurably sad. “Peach?” he asked.
“It’s the one I dream about each night, aye.”
“Remind me tomorrow, will you, Alisdair? When I have more of my wits about me?”
 
 
Mostly the strange, fragmented firestorms captured his attention as he slept. They raged around a bull with red eyes, a gold chalice spilling blood. Sounds came with the dreams, strange unearthly sounds, the chattering of a thousand monkeys, the roar of deranged bees. He woke clutching Olana’s waist. She spoke his name softly. Then the gentle, trilling purr of her desire would replace the bees. “You won’t regret it, ’Lana,” he’d promise. “You won’t regret loving me.”
But even nestled in her arms after, he’d lie awake, on guard
for the dreams, and confused about his life in the day. What was he doing here? What was giving the poor and immigrants small loans, finding them homes? How did that compare to the Barbary Coast, the land and water rights plunderers, the monument to graft and corruption that was City Hall itself? Could he even help keep the bank afloat with his own denseness about numbers? Sleep. He needed more sleep, to sort it out so it didn’t go around on itself, devouring its own tail.
City families started asking for his grandmother at births. Sometimes she allowed him to come. Those were the only nights he slept dreamless, after births.
When was Farrell coming home to take this weight off his shoulders, to give Possum her mana back? In the Fall, their latest letters promised. What if his mother fell in love with the green hills of Ireland? What if Farrell made his triumphant homecoming permanent? They would be in the cool breezes forever and he would be here in the city by a bay that offered no relief in this still, silent heat. This earthquake weather.
He sat up. “Earthquake.”
Olana touched his back. “Do you feel a tremor?”
“Not a tremor. An earthquake. Where’s Possum?”
“Just next door. We’re at your house tonight, remember?”
“I have to see her.”
“May I come?”
He took a gentle hold on the back of Olana’s neck as they looked into Possum’s room. He’d done it again, he realized. Awakened her to his phantoms.
“It’s this weather, I think,” she whispered. “It’s got us all a little addled. So still.”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I didn’t know what house I was in. What about your father? Who will help him?” Olana trembled there in the still, hot darkness. “I frighten you, don’t I?” he charged.
“No.”
“I do. I frighten you worse than when you thought I’d rape you.”
“Matthew. Stop it.”
“You think I’m going mad.”
“Darling, listen. We can go away. When your mother and Farrell come home. We’ll go to Aunt Winnie’s, shall we? We’ll open up her house by the sea. Just the two of us.”
“The farm,” he whispered. I want to go home, ’Lana.”
Her body froze in its stillness. “Don’t ask that of me, Matthew. Not yet. I don’t have your courage.”
He kissed her forehead. “You? Who does weekly battle with every pompous ass institution in the state of California? Who tames a hundred city rag-tag motherless ruffians with Louisa May Alcott twice a week?”
She smiled, relieved. “That’s to counter your
Huckleberry Finn
the other two afternoons.”
“Both of which may be found happy together on the shelves of the new library space at Dolorosa Mission.”
“When it’s not being hastily cleared for a German folk dance or blaring with Irish pipe music, Mr. Hart!” she imitated her tone when they sparred at the community mission meetings.
“Or the harp. Now, Lady Hamilton, I was the happy recipient of the overflow of your delight in that demonstration.” He kissed her deep into the pillows, then glided his thumb over her brow’s anxious line, erasing it. “Forgive me for waking you, darling girl,” he whispered.
“Let’s see what we can do about making better dreams tonight, Mr. Hart,” she urged.
 
 
The next morning at the
Chronicle,
Olana sat watching the steam rise from the teapot’s spout. Sidney and Basil’s eyes were so focused on her face she knew there was no escape. She’d made a promise to them, and broken it.
“You didn’t tell him,” Sidney said.
“He hasn’t been sleeping well. His dreams, his obligations — This is one more thing to worry him.”
Sidney’s brow arched. “Oh?” he said. “Is that what your news is?”
“No. I’m gloriously happy. But what if he’s not as happy? I can hardly expect him to be, can I?”
“That’s why we have to tell him. So we can work out what’s best.”
“What’s best for us will hurt you and Basil.”
“We shouldn’t have gotten you into this.” Her husband spoke for the first time.
“My eyes were open.”
“You don’t regret it?”
She touched his face, missing his usual animated banter. “It’s very early for you, isn’t it?” she said softly. “Have some tea.”
A twitch started under his left eye. “Listen to her!” he hissed at Sidney.
Her editor frowned. “Olana’s right. Have some tea, you’re very out of sorts, nightowl.” Sidney watched her as she poured. “He’ll notice the changes in you soon, sport,” he told her gently.
“You think knowing about the baby will make him give them up, you damned fool?” Basil accused sharply.
Olana put the teapot down. “Give what up?”
Sidney winced. “I thought we’d agreed —”
“I won’t stand her taking all on herself! Worrying over his health, his sanity, as if he was some perfect being! Let’s get the central thesis straight: she’s the one carrying his child, and he’s the one breaking her heart!”
“Matthew? Breaking my heart? How?” Olana tried entering their conversation, but they were whirling about each other now.
“Damn it, Spense! I said I’d talk to him about it first!”
“About what?” Olana demanded.
“But you haven’t!”
“I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“You haven’t made the opportunity! You’re as blind to his deceit as she is!”
“Deceit?” Olana tried again. “What are you two talking about?”
“You love him!” Basil accused Sidney. “As deeply as she does! Well, I haven’t forgotten Olana! I haven’t forgotten my wife!”
Basil Hamilton had never before called her his wife, when they were in private, like this. Olana stood, then dropped the empty teapot. It shattered across the floor. Serif rushed in, on guard. She eyed each of the three men in turn. “Now,” she said calmly. “You’re going to tell me what this is all about.”
So they did.
Matthew approached the bedroom door. He turned back to Patsy. She nodded, urging him on. But he felt the heat of Olana’s anger. He tapped so softly he hoped she wouldn’t hear. Then he could go home. Try to get back in her good graces tomorrow.
“Come in.”
Good, steady voice, he thought until he saw her swollen eyes. He approached the bed, kissed her cheek. “How was the opera?” he asked.
“Beautiful.”
“Good. Did Madame Fremstad’s aria break any of that fancy chandelier?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s good.” Wasn’t good. None of this was pointing toward good. “Did you all go to Coretta’s after?”
“I didn’t. I came back here, to wait for you.”
“I left word, ’Lana. That I didn’t know how long —”
“I wanted to wait.”
“Well. It’s late, isn’t it? Maybe I should go home —”
“Sit down, Matthew.”
“Sure. I’ll just go and wash up —”
“Why?”
“Why?” He tried to laugh. “On account of —”
“Don’t you dare lie to me, Matthew Hart! You don’t want me to smell where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing!”
“Uh — yes,” he admitted, remembering Annie’s advice to tell her, tell her. He saw her eyes cloud with tears. “’Lana. It ain’t that often. Please, don’t.”
“How many?”
“How many?”
“Yes. How many have there been?”
“Here. In San Francisco, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Six.”
“Six?”
“Yes. So you see, it’s only now and then. And I don’t go looking for it. They seek me out.”
“Do they?” she whispered into her lap.
“’Lana.” He took her hand. It was cold. “I can’t shut down a part of me because of what happened. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I’m not going to stop. Gran’s right. It helps with the nightmares. It’s good for me.”
“I hate her! I hate you!”
He was expecting some measure of understanding and got an ear-piercing wail. “Jesus, ’Lana, stop that! It’s not like I set up shop!”
The back of her hand slammed across his jaw. One of the garnets on the ring that was his grandmother’s cut his cheek, drew blood. “What in hell is the matter with you?” he demanded, grabbing her wrists before she could hit him again.
“Are they beautiful?” she asked in a rage-filled whisper.
“Of course. They’re always beautiful.”
“Tonight’s? Was she beautiful?”
“It was a he.”
“He?”
The strength went out of her arms. He released her. “Yes,” he said softly. “Breech. Six pounds. They’re poor people, ’Lana.
Doctors in this damned city hear the name of their street and won’t come. So they call on Annie and me — only when there’s some trouble their own women are nervous about and —”
She brought her wrists to her face, inhaling the scent from where he’d held her. Then she grabbed his hands and breathed again, deeply. “Cloves! My God, cloves! Babies! You’ve been helping women have babies!”
“Ain’t — that what we been talking about?” She still held his hands. “ …’Lana?”
She brought his hands to her tear-stained face, and began sucking his fingers, her strong tongue gliding over the joints, circling the pads, flicking in and out, teasing the space between his fingers. By the time she placed his palm against the curve of her face, he had an aching need for her.
“Jesus, ’Lana,” he whispered, “What are you doing now?”
Then she was straddling him, licking the blood from his cheek, whispering in his ear. “Babies. Coming into these hands, these beautiful hands.” She placed them under her breasts, then ground her knee into his hip, the silk of her oriental robe singing. “You are for me,” she whispered fervently, “I am for you.”
Remnants of the birth exhilaration were mixing with his desire. “Sure, ’course we are, but —” Her able hands were at his clothes. “What happened, just now? What did you hit me for? ’Lana, stop that, I can’t think.”
“Don’t think,” she urged, then devoured his mouth.
Everywhere he touched her, the scent of cloves. Strong, mingling with her hyacinths. It reminded him of the night of Lavinia’s birth — the cloves, and the fervor of her longing. Her breasts seemed the same as then, too. They were full, their areolas dark. She teased him with them now, playing erect nipples at his cheek, his bottom lip. Think? He could barely breathe as she placed his swollen need inside her wet caress. She rocked there above him, where he could see the glory of her body, the wonder of her shimmering hair. Rocking, rocking, before she collapsed onto his chest and into his arms.
He waited, patient, enjoying the feel of her, right to her toes
stroking his calf. He led her hand down to feel that he was still hard. She shivered. Cold? Where were the covers? On the floor. He reached, turned, fell. Then they were both on the floor, laughing, entangled, starting all over again.
It wasn’t until he was lying still in her arms that the realization hit. His shoulders began to shake. “Women? You thought other women were keeping me from you?” He followed the heat of her blush from her cheeks to where her waist flared out and rounded nicely beneath his palm.
“You’re taking this very well,” she whispered, contrite.
“No, I ain’t. When I’m done laughing —”
She taunted his ear with her tongue. “You wouldn’t chastise a woman who will be in need of your services?”
His hands stopped circling her abdomen. “’Lana.”
“In the fall. When your mother and Farrell return. And we — can go back to the farm, if you’d like, my darling.”
He sat up.
“Matthew, say you’re not angry.”
“Angry?” He threw back his head and laughed. It had been so long since he’d done that. His thumb blotted a tear from the far corner of her eye. “Are you well?” he whispered.
She glanced at the rumpled covers around them. “Could any but a well woman feast on your love as shamelessly as I just did?” she asked at his ear. A slight coloring flared in his cheeks.
“I’ve done it!” she proclaimed. “Matthew Hart, I’ve made you blush!” She threw her arms about him, laughing.
He slid down in the anarchy of white damask, pulled the silk of her robe aside. He rested against the warmth of her full breasts.
“I should have known,” he said.
“I didn’t suspect myself. Again. Isn’t it glorious?”
“It’s soon. Not yet two years. Annie’s going to have my head for not being more careful with you —”
“Oh, Matthew, it would be soon, if Lavinia were with us. Without her it’s been an eternity.”
His hand stroked her back the way it had during her labor. “Yes,” he agreed.
“I know it’s … complicated. But Basil and Sidney are ecstatic. It was quite touching really —”
“You told them? Before me?”
“Matthew, we thought you were turning away —”
“We? Who are we? You? Your husband? Sidney?”
“Yes.”
“They followed me, didn’t know what they were seeing. Suspected I had other women. Never thought to ask me.”
“They thought of it, Matthew. But you are rather formidable to them, you know.”
“I’m formidable to them?”
“It’s foolish, I know, but —”
“Still you sought their advice.”
“Matthew, they thought —”
“The child.” His voice choked back twice, then sounded like someone was holding him underwater. “His people will come. Take her away. Away from me —”
“No. No they won’t, love.”
“They’ll try.”
“We won’t let them.”
“You think you can stop them? I’ll be lucky if I get to be a doting uncle. Your husband’s people — they’re the fucking British Empire!”
“Matthew!”
“Goddamn it, woman! Why can’t you let me have my own children?”
The silence hung dark and dead around them. He closed his eyes against the pain in hers and grasped a rail of her bed, shook it instead of her, but it didn’t help. Olana pried his fingers loose from the cold brass, took him into her arms. Why did she do that? Why didn’t she throw him out? He held on to her, smelling the sweetness of her changing breasts, soaking the silk of her robe with his ragged weeping.
“I’m sorry. ’Lana I’m so sorry.”
“Hush now. It will be all right. Somehow it will be all right, for all of us.”
 
 
Matthew didn’t like it here, in the men’s part of Olana’s house. The Englishman peered over his shoulder. Basil Hamilton’s lime and ginger scent mixed with what? Boredom? Fear? Helping Lord Hamilton to get his finances in order was just an excuse. What were Olana and Sidney up to? Matthew had never been alone with her husband, he’d avoided every opportunity. That’s what Sidney and Olana wanted, the two of them to have it out. Because of the child who was coming, his and Olana’s child, bearing this man’s name. The pencil point broke.
“Damnation.” Matthew swiveled the chair. Lord Hamilton was no longer behind him. He followed his lime and ginger to the closet’s pocket doors, and pulled them open wider. “Jesus,” Matthew breathed, looking inside. “It’s half the room.”
Basil Hamilton came toward him through the clutter, and deposited an arm load of clothes over his shoulder.
“I requested your help with my finances, not an initiation into your religious order.”
“What?”
“Hair shirt penitential?”
Matthew threw the clothes on a chair and went back to the desk. “What in the hell are you talking about?” he muttered, sitting, pulling out his pocketknife and scraping at the errant pencil. Basil leaned over his chair.
“You’ll never understand the fine art of extravagance. A priest —” he cocked an eyebrow, reconsidering. “Well, a druid priest, perhaps. That’s what you are.”
“You sound like Aunt Winnie.”
“Aunt Winnie’s like the fools in Shakespeare. Eminently sensible. And she’s right. If it weren’t for Olana, you’d still be living in trees and eating bark.”
“You kill a tree, eating its bark.”
Matthew felt the man’s breath at his neck. “I’m teasing, Matt.”
He didn’t raise his head from the numbers. Numbers everywhere — on checks from abroad, record books, store accounts. “You’re being ignorant, about the trees,” he said, continuing to bury the bills under pencil shavings.
“But right about you. Of course, if you weren’t a saint, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I?”
“Dead?”
“You’d like me dead, wouldn’t you?”
What game was this man playing now? Matthew closed the knife carefully, then pulled off his spectacles. “I can’t figure these numbers and your nonsense at the same time,” he said, standing. “Let’s wait for Sidney.”
But he didn’t know which door led to Olana’s part of the house. He searched among them.
“Yes, Sidney you can tolerate. He never turned against his nature, did he? Never played the part of a real man, a man like you! He never asked his ‘sport’ to marry him. That’s what you hate about me, is it not?”
Matthew turned and did what he rarely accomplished with Olana’s husband. He looked him straight in the eyes. “I don’t hate you,” he said. “But I want my child.”
Basil Hamilton’s stance eased. He smiled sadly. “Matt, listen. My mother dutifully presented my father with an heir — my brother, and a spare — me. My elder brother is in excellent health, has six ruddy, pink-cheeked children of both sexes. I am viewed as a miserable failure, insomuch as I could not even perform the simple task of marrying an American Rose rich enough to refurbish the tumbledown manor. My father doesn’t care enough to write, never mind take any notice of progeny. Does that help?”
“A bit,” Matthew admitted. “I’m sorry.”
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