Chapter Three
Comfort was reading at the window bench in her
room when Suey Tsin brought in a message from Bram. Thistle
remained curled in her lap while she looked it over, and he
required more push than nudge to vacate his cozy post when Comfort
wanted to rise.
“My leaf green jacket, please,” Comfort said,
glancing up from Bram’s broad scrawl to look out the window. “That
will be sufficient, I think.” The sky was cloudless, and sunshine
had warmed her pleasantly while she read, but when she cracked the
window earlier, she discovered she’d been deceived as a chilling
breeze slipped into the room. “And the matching gloves.”
She folded the note in quarters and laid it on her
nightstand beside the red-and-white tin that had been her bedtime
companion for as long as she could remember. Her fingers trailed
over the cool, smooth surface of the tin. It was inevitable after
so many years of fingering it in a like manner that some of the
paint had worn away. She could still make out all of the letters,
but that was largely because while the paint had faded over time,
the engraving in her mind had not.
Dr. Eli Kennedy’s Comfort Lozenges.
She felt her fingertips tremble slightly and
removed her hand before the tremor was visible to herself or Suey
Tsin. Stepping back from the bed, she crossed the floor to where
her maid held out her jacket.
“Will you let my uncles know that I’ve left?” she
asked.
“I tell Mista Barkin. He tell uncles.”
Comfort didn’t think that Suey Tsin had spoken more
than a hundred words to her uncles in the four years she’d been
working in the house. “All right. You tell Mister Barkin. He’ll
know better when they can be disturbed.” It was her uncles’
practice each Sunday afternoon to hole up, as they called it, in
their study on the pretense of discussing business for the upcoming
week. It was not a well-kept secret that what engaged them was a
couple of shots of whiskey each and a nap.
“You not want to tell either,” Suey Tsin
said.
Comfort couldn’t deny it. “You’re right.”
“Where you go?”
“Pardon?”
Suey Tsin’s sloe-eyed glance slanted in the
direction of the bedside stand. “Message come. You go. But where
you go?”
“Oh, of course.” She held out her hand for Suey
Tsin to assist her with the buttons on her gloves. “The note’s from
Bram. He’s invited me to join his mother and him for tea.”
The maid nodded. “I tell Mista Barkin.”
“Yes. Good.”
“You take carriage.”
“No, I’m going to walk.” She was looking forward to
fresh air and stretching her legs.
“Too far. You take carriage.”
Comfort shook her head. Bram’s house wasn’t far at
all. A few blocks and a steeply inclined street were all that
separated their homes. “I’m walking,” she said firmly and accepted
Suey Tsin’s jerky nod as acquiescence. “Now, what have I done with
my reticule?”
Bode plucked the damp and dripping bundle of
shaved ice from his eye and tossed it at Travers. The valet had
just enough warning to prepare for the pitch by cupping his hands
together. He caught it easily and carried it to the bathing room,
where he deposited it in the sink.
“Mind you,” he called back to Bode. “You were
supposed to keep it in place another ten minutes.” He dried his
hands and returned to the doorway in time to see Bode using his
shirtsleeve to dab at his eye. Reaching around the corner into the
bathing room, Samuel grabbed a towel and flung it at Bode’s
head.
Bode caught the tail of it before it fluttered to
the floor. “Thank you.” He gingerly pressed the towel to his eye.
“Given the proximity of my eye to my brain, the latter was in
danger of drowning or freezing.”
“Neither one of those things explains
stupidity.”
Bode lowered the towel and gave Travers an
inquiring look from his good eye. “I see we’re speaking
frankly.”
“Something has to be said.”
“You’re not referring to the icepack, I imagine.”
When Samuel simply stared back, Bode sighed. “Ah. It’s the note,
then.”
“O’course it’s the note. And I don’t hold with you
making me party to your scheme.”
“Scheme lends the plan more deviousness than it
deserves, don’t you think?”
“Scheme,” Travers said firmly.
Bode shrugged and finished wiping down his face. He
folded the towel neatly and held it out for Sam. “She’s not here
yet, so maybe she saw through it. I never tried my hand at forgery
before, and Miss Kennedy has more than a passing familiarity with
Bram’s penmanship.”
“She’ll be here. I can’t explain it, but she likes
your mother. She won’t turn down an invitation to tea.”
“Then perhaps we should have some. You’ll see to
that, won’t you?”
“Only because I live to do your bidding.”
Bode’s sardonic look matched Travers’s tone
perfectly. “The tea,” he said. “And some of those little sandwiches
Alexandra likes.”
Travers nodded once. He collected a few damp towels
and slung them over his forearm before he turned to go. To make
certain he had the last word, he waited until he was closing the
door behind him before he said, “Maybe you should have thought on
this plan a little longer.”
Bode’s firm mouth lifted at the corners as the door
clicked into place. He appreciated Sam’s concern, but he didn’t
share it. He merely wanted to speak to Comfort. He was hardly
sowing the seeds of scandal. That was the kind of gardening that
Bram did.
Resting his head on the back of the chaise, Bode
closed the only eye he could and listened for some sign that would
indicate that Miss Kennedy had finally arrived.
“I don’t understand,” Comfort said as Hitchens
opened the door wide enough for her to step inside. “I thought Mrs.
DeLong would be at home. I’m sure that’s what Bram wrote.”
“I can’t speak to that, Miss Kennedy.” Even when
the house was operating smoothly under his direction, Hitchens had
a wrinkled brow. Now, with the calm waters stirring slightly, the
wrinkles were pressed into sharp creases. “Mrs. DeLong and Master
Bram have not returned since leaving for church. Their plans
included a repast with Reverend Asbury and his wife following the
service and a carriage ride out in the direction of Lands End. I do
not expect them for several hours.”
Comfort pressed her lips together, thinking.
“Perhaps I misread the invitation and it was extended for another
day.”
“I don’t know what else explains it,” said
Hitchens. The tightness in his features eased a bit as he could
find no reason that responsibility for the error should be dropped
on his stooping shoulders.
A movement at the top of the stairs drew Comfort’s
attention. She saw Samuel Travers cross the landing and disappear
into the west wing. He had been carrying a large silver platter in
front of him. She didn’t think she imagined that it was Alexandra
DeLong’s prized tea service that he was balancing.
Her nostrils flared slightly with the strength of
her exasperated exhalation. “Never mind, Mr. Hitchens. I think I
know what happened. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, but since I’m
here, I may as well make a sick call on Mr. DeLong.”
Hitchens stiffened slightly, drawing back his
shoulders. Even with this adjustment, he was not quite eye to eye
with Comfort. “Allow me to inquire if he’s taking visitors.”
“There’s no need. Mr. DeLong and I don’t stand on
that sort of ceremony. He’ll receive me. In fact, I believe I’m
expected.” She neatly sidestepped the butler’s attempt to interfere
with her advance on the stairs. She pretended that his intention
was to escort her. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Hitchens. I know
the way.”
Bode sat up when he heard Travers fumbling with the
doorknob. A moment later the valet entered, the tea service
balanced gingerly on the fingertips of one hand. “Careful with
that,” Bode said unnecessarily. “Put it on the table beside that
chair.”
“I’m not sure she’ll be sitting down,” Travers told
him. “Could be this platter is holding a whole lot of weapons
she’ll be launching at you.”
Bode ignored the warning and focused on what was
salient. “She’s here?”
“Just arrived.”
“Well, send her up.”
“Oh, I think she’s on her way.”
“Really?” He had intended to ask Travers how that
had come about so quickly, but Comfort’s sudden appearance on the
threshold of his room made the question unimportant. Bode started
to rise, clenching his jaw when his back began to spasm.
“Stay where you are, Mr. DeLong. I told your butler
that you and I don’t stand on ceremony.”
“He doesn’t stand at all,” muttered Travers. This
aside earned him a withering look from Bode and Comfort’s
appreciative smirk. He pretended he was unaware of either and set
the tray down. “Is there anything else, sir?”
Bode indicated the bell on the floor at his side.
“I’ll ring if I need you.”
Travers restrained the retort that came to mind and
addressed Comfort instead. “May I take your jacket and
gloves?”
“No.”
“Your bonnet, then.”
“No, Mr. Travers. I won’t be staying long.”
“Very well.” He made a point of not hurrying from
the room, leaving both parties to stew in silence until he shut the
door and moved out of their hearing.
Comfort glanced around the room, noticing the bed
was turned down but too neatly pressed to have been slept in. She
went to the foot of the chaise, liking the superiority of height
and the safety of distance.
“Well, Mr. DeLong, I’m here, and it seems you went
to some trouble to make that happen.”
“I went to surprisingly little trouble. Travers
delivered the pen and paper and lap desk, and Billy Powell
delivered the note. I did compose the message, however, but that
only required a single draft.”
“Your handwriting is very like your
brother’s.”
“I expect that’s because we had the same
tutor.”
Flattening her mouth, Comfort let her impatience
show. “What do you want?”
“Company.”
She blinked. “Company?”
“Yes. Is that so astonishing? My mother and brother
abandoned me, and you heard Travers for yourself. His idea of
biting wit is to sink his teeth into my flesh. So, yes, I want
company.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “My
company?”
“You’re the only one I invited.”
“I can bite, too.”
“And I know it.” He waved a hand to indicate his
position on the chaise. “How did you manage it exactly? As I heard
you tell everyone within earshot, I was fine . . . until I
wasn’t.”
“So you brought me here for an apology.”
Bode shook his head. He made a pass through his
dark copper hair with his fingertips. “You may make one, of course,
if you are moved to it, but I’d rather hear how it was done. Better
yet, I’d like you to show me.”
“You’re serious?”
He inclined his head a fraction in her direction
and simply regarded Comfort until her skeptical expression
faded.
“It’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Perhaps.”
When it didn’t appear that he would waver, she
reluctantly agreed. “I suppose I can demonstrate, but you will have
to imagine that I have an adversary.”
“Perhaps not.” Leaning over, he grasped the teak
handle of the bell and shook it. “Give him a moment.”
Comfort raced forward and snatched the bell from
Bode’s hand, silencing it against her midriff. “What are you
thinking?” she whispered harshly. “Mr. Travers wears a
brace.”
“It’s for the purpose of a demonstration only. I
don’t want you to hurt him.”
She set the bell well outside of Bode’s reach. “I
won’t do it, and if he heard your summons, I want you to send him
off.”
“Oh, very well, but I’m telling you, he’d be game
for it.”
“I don’t care.” She watched the clock on the
mantelpiece, and when two long minutes passed without Travers
appearing, she finally relaxed. “He didn’t hear it.”
“More likely he ignored it.”
Comfort thought she’d be wise to do the same but
found herself unbuttoning her gloves and jacket. For good measure,
she removed her bonnet and laid it on the seat of a wing chair. She
raised her arms as they had been during their dance.
“You were holding me so,” she said. “And taking me
through a turn. You made it easy for me to stay in the cat
stance.”
“The cat stance?”
As she lowered her hands, the line of Comfort’s
mouth turned uncertain. “You know. Like a cat. Light and ready to
move.”
“Show me.”
She hesitated. She would have to raise her
skirts.
“You didn’t do it with your hands. You used your
feet.”
“Actually, I used both.”
Bode looked pointedly at the hem of her walking
dress and waited her out. When she lifted it high enough to reveal
soft kid boots and a pair of finely turned ankles, his expression
didn’t change. “All right,” he said. “Now what?”
“Do you see how I’m bearing my weight on my rear
foot?” she asked. “Notice how it’s angled. The tip of my forward
foot is raised and the heel rests lightly on the floor. That’s the
cat stance.”
“I see. And you were moving around me like that
while we were dancing?”
“Only the once,” she said. “Only after I warned
you.”
He remembered. “And then what?”
Comfort looked around again and spied a
ladder-backed chair behind a writing desk. She went over to the
desk and moved the chair back and forth to gauge its weight before
tipping it on its rear legs. The carpet rippled as she dragged the
chair to the chaise.
Raising her hem and assuming the cat stance once
more, Comfort glided effortlessly through a graceful circle step
and demonstrated how quickly she’d caught Bode off guard by
upending the chair. Her reflexes were sound, and she grabbed the
chair before it thumped to the floor, much in the way she’d grabbed
and supported Bode.
“Show me again,” he said.
She compressed her lips, considering. “Just once
more,” she said finally. Looking away from him, she began humming
softly, repeating several measures of the waltz the musicians had
been playing when she and Bode danced. She held up her skirt, this
time not hampered by a train, and made two elliptical revolutions
around the wing chair and the writing desk before she moved in on
the ladder-backed chair. Comfort had considerable momentum this
time, and her glide and kick lifted the chair more than six inches
off the carpet before she caught the front lip of the seat and set
it down gently.
Flushed, as much from the pleasure of her
performance as the exertion of it, she turned on Bode. The flush
became the color of embarrassment when he began to applaud.
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “The worst
thing I’ve done is shown you how very little encouragement it takes
for me to behave so foolishly.”
He stopped clapping but kept his palms pressed
together and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Your engagement to
my brother aside, I don’t believe you’ve ever done anything foolish
in your life.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
He turned thoughtful. “Why is that?”
Comfort shrugged. “That is the sort of question you
have to answer for yourself.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded to the wing chair. “Will
you sit? There are tea and sandwiches.” When he sensed her
hesitation, he added, “Please. I would like it. Really.”
“All right. For a little while.” She returned the
ladder-backed chair to its place and removed her bonnet from the
seat of the wing chair. She laid it beside her jacket and gloves on
the chest at the foot of the bed. “Do you take sugar? Cream?”
“Neither.”
“You probably prefer it with a touch of whiskey the
way Uncle Newt does.”
“More like a touch of tea with my whiskey.”
She poured the steeped tea from the pot into a
delicately fluted china cup. “That’s more like Uncle Tuck.” She
extended the cup to Bode and made sure he had it securely in his
palm before she released it. Taking both cream and sugar for
herself, Comfort tested the taste before she sat. “Would you like a
sandwich? Mrs. Deltry makes excellent ones.”
“No, thank you. But help yourself.” He waited while
she selected a petite watercress sandwich. “Do you know all my
mother’s staff?”
“Not all, I’m sure. But many of them.”
“How does that happen? I’m not sure Alexandra knows
them.”
“I know the ones that have accounts at our
bank.”
Bode’s short laugh made the cup rattle in its
saucer. He steadied it. “So it’s business, then.”
“Good business.”
“Perhaps. Black Crowne’s never done business with
Jones Prescott.”
“I know.”
“Do you expect that will change once you and Bram
are married?”
“I don’t see why it would, and you should know that
Bram and I don’t discuss money.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but you might consider having
that conversation before you exchange vows. It could be . . .” He
paused, searching for the right word. “Illuminating.”
“There’s no point. I doubt Bram could shed any
light on Crowne Shipping and the DeLong finances if he held a
candelabra over the book of accounts. Everyone knows you and your
mother make all the decisions, and as you’ve chosen to work with
Croft Federal just as your father did, I don’t see Bram’s marriage
influencing the relationship you have with Mr. Bancroft.”
Bode’s left eyebrow lifted. “A candelabra?” He
appreciated the picture she brought to mind. “If only you
exaggerated,” he said, his mouth twisting wryly. What Bram knew
about figures mostly related to the female form. That education was
compliments of dance halls and brothels, and perhaps from observing
their own father in pursuit of what was under every woman’s skirt.
He hadn’t learned it in the classrooms at Harvard.
“What did you study at Oberlin?” Bode asked
suddenly.
Comfort couldn’t follow the change in subject, but
she supposed that didn’t matter. “Mathematics.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she said, repeating his intonation
precisely. “Statistical calculation and analysis. Probability. The
evaluation of risk. Applications for business, economics, and
engineering. My degree says liberal arts, but all of my
concentrations were in math.”
“Remarkable.”
Comfort felt another warning was in order. “It’s
just that sort of condescension that contributed to you lying on
that chaise.”
Bode arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing. He
sipped his tea.
Comfort took another dainty sandwich, cucumber this
time. “Your eye looks worse than it did last night.”
“I know.”
“Did someone give you ice for it?”
“Ice. Beefsteak.” He pointed to the plate of
sandwiches. “Cucumber slices.”
Comfort regarded her sandwich uneasily.
“A different cucumber entirely, I’m sure.”
Hungrier than she was skeptical, she plopped what
was left of the bite in her mouth. “What about your back? You
couldn’t rise when I came in.”
“It will be fine. I’m going to work
tomorrow.”
“Do you think that’s wise? It doesn’t appear that
you were able to sleep in your own bed.”
“That’s not my bed. At least it hasn’t been for
years. My bed has some support, like this chaise.”
“Then it’s true what they say about you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You sleep on a bed of nails.”
“I eat them, too. And spit rust.”
She laughed and realized quite suddenly that she
was enjoying herself. Perhaps it was that he only had one steely
eye. The intensity of the blue-violet glint had been reduced by
half, and he hadn’t so much as turned it on her once.
“What do you do at your offices?” she asked.
“As little as possible,” he said. “I prefer being
away from them. My interest is the ships. Talking to the masters.
Inspecting. Looking over the cargo.”
She was certain he had employees for those things,
so if he did them, it was because he really wanted to be out of
doors.
“There are meetings, I suspect.”
“Mm. Too many. Deals. Contracts. Agreements to be
settled with a handshake.” He felt his jaw tighten. “Or with the
turn of a card.”
“That really happens?”
“Sometimes.” He wanted to shrug, but his shoulders
were suddenly too tight to make it appear careless. He sought a
neutral tone instead and was glad to find it. “It’s San
Francisco.”
She nodded, understanding. She’d seen lots of
valuables traded or sold in the gambling tents and mining camps,
and she’d been witness to what never should have been bought or
sold in the cribs and whorehouses.
“Bram told me you used to be master on the
Artemis Queen,” she said. “Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” Almost always, he could have said.
Admitting it would have been indulgent. “What do you know about the
Artemis?”
“What everyone knows, I suppose. She’s your
flagship. The most beautiful ship in the fleet. At least I think
she’s the most beautiful. I don’t know if that’s what makes her a
flagship.”
Bode wondered if she’d accept an invitation to go
aboard. He didn’t extend the offer, though it would have been
interesting to see her reaction. The Artemis Queen was weeks
out from completing her China run. There was still plenty of time
to consider it. “What do you do at your offices?” he asked.
“Besides learn the name of every person who has an account at Jones
Prescott.”
“I review the city papers from the previous day so
I can follow up on the important stories. News out of the
legislature and governor’s office, for instance. Railroad
expansion. Who is getting federal land grants. All of the things
that influence interest rates and investments.”
“What else?”
“Well, I read and approve loan applications. Uncle
Tuck and I decide how we’ll deliver payrolls to the mines. What
routes, which stage drivers we’ll use, or if we’ll send the money
by train. We always have to consider robbery. Uncle Tuck has a
special sense for it. Not robbery,” she said quickly. “But for
avoiding it.”
“I had no idea,” he said. “About any of
that.”
“Uncle Newt and I discuss investments. That has
always been his strength. He can look over fluctuations in the
market and know exactly what funds he wants to transfer. With the
telegraph the market is no longer just local. We can make transfers
with our agents in Chicago, St. Louis, and New York.”
“Is he ever wrong?”
“Of course. More often than he’s right. But it’s
not like he’s pushing all his markers to the center of the table
and betting against the house. The distribution of money over a
variety of investments of varying risks helps soften the blow of a
single failure. Even a catastrophic one.” Comfort realized she was
rattling on about a subject that would have had Bram plotting his
escape. It wasn’t fair that she’d taken advantage of her captive
audience. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was probably
every bit as painful as the stitch in your back.”
“Hardly.”
She wondered if he was sincere. There was no
inflection in his voice and no expression on his face to guide
her.
“You’re the only woman I know who works.” He knew
immediately that he’d said something wrong. Comfort Kennedy had her
hackles up. Before he could determine what made her bristle, she
was letting him know all about it.
“That’s not true. In this house alone there is Mrs.
Deltry, Mrs. Patrick, Mrs. Eversly, and no less than seven girls
employed as housemaids and kitchen help. And dare I mention your
mother? She’d have something to say, I’m sure.”
Bode was equally sure that was true. He cleared his
throat and made an attempt at looking contrite. Apologies did not
come as swiftly to his lips as they did to his brother’s. “Allow me
to amend that. I was trying to say that you’re the only woman I
know who works outside of her home—or anyone else’s for that
matter.”
She conceded the point, and she didn’t want to make
another using dance hall greeters, actresses, pretty waiter girls,
and whores as further examples. Comfort inclined her head,
acknowledging his correction. “Men seem to have a difficult time
recognizing the contributions of women.”
“I never thought of myself as one of those men,”
Bode said. “Until now. Consider me corrected.” He finished his tea
and held out the cup and saucer for Comfort to take. The awkward
stretch put his back into spasm again. He swore softly as the
saucer slid from his nerveless fingers and the teacup
followed.
Comfort caught the saucer in her free hand and the
cup on the toe of her shoe. Pretending she didn’t see Bode’s look
of astonishment, she carefully set her own cup and saucer on the
tray and then added his saucer. She bent forward and removed his
teacup from the tip of her kid boot.
“What do you do when you’re asked for an
encore?”
She made a dismissive gesture that was at odds with
the amusement playing about her mouth. “I had to make the attempt,”
she said. “That is your great-grandmother’s china.”
“I know. I didn’t realize you did.”
Comfort shrugged lightly. “Your mother’s shared
stories on occasion. She remembers the tea service from when she
was a little girl.”
“She really does like you, doesn’t she?”
“I hope so. You seem surprised.”
Not surprised precisely. Alexandra had said much
the same thing to him. What he was, he thought, was suspicious. He
remained quiet on that count. It was simpler to accept Comfort’s
statement than to explain his differences with it.
Comfort couldn’t surmise the direction of his
thoughts, but she recognized that he was in considerable pain.
Because she couldn’t be sure how much her actions on the dance
floor had exacerbated his injury, she felt compelled to offer him
some relief even if he didn’t entirely deserve it.
“Lie on the floor,” she directed without
explanation.
Bode stared at her.
Comfort repeated herself, but this time with a
deliberate pause between each word.
“I heard you,” he said. “I even understood. What I
don’t know is why you want me to do it.”
“You’ll have to trust that I mean to help.” Her
eyebrows lifted a notch. She said, “Well?”
Bode recognized the challenge in her expression.
What he honestly didn’t know was whether or not he was up to it.
Until Comfort arrived, Travers had attended him throughout the day,
bearing some of his weight as he hobbled to the bathing room to see
to his morning ablutions and personal needs. Travers suggested that
he remain in the borrowed nightclothes, robe, and slippers while he
recuperated, but he insisted on dressing because he’d woken up with
a plan already fully formed that would bring Comfort around.
Setting his jaw to keep from grimacing, Bode pushed
himself as upright as he could manage and swung his legs over the
side of the chaise. He caught Comfort staring at his feet.
“You really should remove your shoes,” she said.
“Shall I help you?”
“I’d rather keep them on.”
“All right.” She tucked her smile on the inside of
her mouth. How many times, she wondered, had Bram told her that his
brother could be fastidious? Is this what he’d meant? Whether it
was a demonstration of manners or modesty, or simply that he didn’t
want to reveal a hole in one of his socks, Comfort found it an
unexpectedly appealing aspect of his character. Then again, perhaps
it was only that he meant to be difficult.
Bode got on the floor by sliding off the chaise and
going straight to his knees. He began to lean back, but Comfort put
out an arm to stop him.
“You’ll have to take off your jacket,” she told
him. “That’s not negotiable. And lie on your stomach. I’ll find a
towel for your head.”
Bode watched as she stood and disappeared into the
adjoining bath. She never looked back, obviously expecting that he
wouldn’t make any sort of protest. He didn’t. In a careful series
of shrugs, he managed to push his black frock coat over his
shoulders so that it was hanging loosely at his elbows by the time
Comfort returned. Without asking his permission, she freed his
trapped arms and put the jacket on the chaise.
“Your vest,” she said. “Come on. In for a penny, in
for a pound.”
“Spoken like a banker.”
She didn’t believe he meant it as a compliment, so
she didn’t thank him, and since his fingers had begun to fiddle
with the buttons on his gray silk vest, she didn’t goad him to do
the job more quickly. Judging where his head would be when he
stretched out on the carpet, Comfort folded the towel and then
placed it on the floor.
“Walk forward using your hands for support,” she
told him, taking his vest away.
Bode couldn’t come up with a single good reason to
do what she said. “I don’t think I—” Out of the corner of his eye
he saw her skirts flutter. She was actually beating a tattoo
against the floor with the toe of her boot. He glanced up. Sure
enough, her impatience was also visible in the flat line of her
mouth and in the tight fold of her arms across her chest. “Is it
generally known that you have tendencies toward the
tyrannical?”
Comfort unfolded her arms and let them fall to her
sides, but her mouth did not soften appreciably. “I am only
discovering it myself.”
Bode didn’t miss the hint of accusation in her
tone. Apparently he was responsible for revealing this unpleasant
facet of her nature. It almost made the ridiculousness of his
position palatable. He began easing forward exactly as
instructed.
Comfort perched on one arm of the wing chair and
began unlacing her boots while Bode made his painful way to the
floor. He would never return to his offices tomorrow, she thought,
not without intervention. No matter that he wanted to believe it
could be accomplished by sheer force of will, she knew better. She
removed her boots.
“Turn your head so you can rest your face on your
cheek,” she said. “But move your arms to your sides.”
He did as he was told, because, really, what choice
did he have at this juncture?
Comfort regarded the stiff line of his long frame
and shook her head. It wouldn’t do. “Try to relax.” This had no
appreciable impact. She sighed. “Begin by closing your eyes.” Since
she could only see his swollen one, she had to trust that he was
doing as she asked. “Imagine a stream of clear, cool water flowing
under your skin. Imagine the sound of it as it slips over muscle
and sinew. You can only hear the sound of the water and the sound
of my voice, and they become one, a single quiet current that lifts
tension and carries it away.”
Her voice became incrementally softer as she went
on, and also more insistent. “You feel the water at the back of
your neck, cool rivulets running over your skin. The water is
pooling across your back. Your shoulders are pleasantly heavy under
the weight of the water. You feel some of it trickle down your
spine. There is no part of you that is untouched by it. The water
is everywhere. It lies against your back, your legs, the soles of
your feet. You feel it slipping along your arms, across your palms,
and between your fingertips. You cannot stir it. It stirs
you.”
Comfort lifted the hem of her dress as she moved to
Bode’s side. “The water is a satisfying weight. You don’t fight it.
You don’t want to.” She stepped onto his back. “You accept it.” Her
toes curled into the muscles on either side of his spine. She moved
slowly, carefully, her skirts brushing Bode’s arms as she walked
the length of his backbone. Her steps were small, her carriage
balanced, and she moved with the grace and confidence of a
tightrope performer. Her voice remained quiet and steady, and
exactly as she’d told him it would be, at one with the
current.
Her toes worked especially hard at the base of his
spine where his muscles were so tight it was like standing on a
board. Or in Bode’s case, at the edge of a gangplank. She bent her
knees slightly, pressing more deeply, looking for the spring in the
board. She thought of the water, her form, and the power of her
dive, and then she pushed off.
Even before she heard his soft grunt and the
subsequent blissful moan, Comfort knew she’d found and released the
pinched source of his pain.
Landing lightly on the balls of her feet, she
pulled her skirt clear of him and turned away so she could sit in
the wing chair. She picked up one of her boots, loosened the laces
a bit more, and started to slip her foot inside. It was not
surprising that Bode hadn’t yet said a word. When she did the same
thing for Tuck, he often napped right where he lay.
She didn’t glance at Bode until she’d finished
lacing both boots. He hadn’t opened the one eye he could, but she
could tell from the faint twitching of his fingers that he hadn’t
fallen asleep.
“You don’t have to move,” she said.
“I don’t think I can.” Even as he said it, he knew
it wasn’t accurate. He didn’t want to move, and for the
moment he appreciated the difference. “What did you do to
me?”
“I can’t properly pronounce it, but you can inquire
of almost any Chinaman and he will be able to tell you. Not every
Chinaman can do it, though, so you should be careful not to let
just anyone make the walk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Comfort looked around the wing chair to the clock.
“I should go. You’ve had your fill of company, I think, and I
prefer to be elsewhere when your mother and Bram return
home.”
“Why? There’s nothing improper about you paying a
sick call.” Now he opened his eye and gave her an inquiring look.
“Unless, that is, you mean to tell them how you came to be
here.”
“I don’t believe I’ll mention it, although Mr.
Hitchens might say something. Before I understood what was going
on, I told him I’d been invited by Mrs. DeLong.”
“Let me deal with Hitchens.”
Bode would have to, Comfort thought. She certainly
had no intention of doing it. She got to her feet.
“Stay,” he said.
“I’m quite certain I’m expected at home soon. And I
walked, Mr. DeLong, so I have to account for the time it will take
to walk back.”
“I’ll arrange for a carriage.”
“You’re treading dangerously close to
petulance.”
Was he? Probably. “Are you always so
forthright?”
“No. No one is any one thing always.”
Bode got his hands under his shoulders and pushed
himself up. He drew in his knees and then sprang from that position
to his full height. All of it was accomplished without the
slightest twinge of pain. “Amazing,” he said under his breath. Even
more softly, he said, “Witch.”
Comfort was already at the foot of the bed
retrieving her jacket from the chest. She pretended she hadn’t
heard. The characterization did not displease her, though, and she
suspected that was because she’d had her fill recently of being
called sensible.
Bode came up beside her and held out his hand for
her jacket. She gave it to him and turned so he could help her into
it.
“Thank you,” she said, her hands gliding over the
buttons. “I can manage the rest.” When he didn’t step back, she
slipped sideways, taking her gloves and bonnet with her. She
couldn’t have said what made her uncomfortable. She was fine . . .
until she wasn’t. “Good day, Mr. DeLong.”
He smiled narrowly at her. “You’ve called me Bode
before.”
She had, but she couldn’t remember why. She didn’t
want to call him Bode now. Comfort inclined her head politely.
“Good day.”
Bode didn’t reply. He watched as she secured her
bonnet, wondering if she would be clumsy with the ribbons. She
wasn’t. She did equally well with her gloves, pulling them on
smoothly and managing the buttons with the deft precision of one
who did not always wait for the assistance of a maid. He grabbed
his waistcoat as they passed the chaise and put it on while he
escorted her to the door.
“You don’t have to see me out. I know the
way.”
“I realize that, but I’d like to test the limits of
that correction you made to my back.”
“Unless you throw yourself off the landing, or try
to somersault down the stairs, you’ll be fine.” She shrugged when
he kept pace with her. “But please yourself.”
Bode gave Comfort the banister side of the
staircase. There wasn’t a step that he took that made him want to
reach for her or reach around her for support. He was almost sorry
for that. Almost.
Hitchens came hurrying into the entrance hall when
Bode and Comfort arrived. Bode waved him off. “It’s all right, Mr.
Hitchens. I’m walking Miss Kennedy out.”
“But your frock coat . . . your back . . .” He
frowned more deeply. “Your hat.”
“I can’t tell if your concern is for my health or
my wardrobe.” Beside him, he heard Comfort laugh softly. “It’s
fine,” he told the butler. “I’m only going as far as the
street.”
Comfort opened the door before Hitchens decided to
throw himself across it and bar their exit. She slipped out, Bode
right behind her. “I don’t think he’d have let you leave if you
hadn’t already put on your vest.”
“Probably not. He’s fussy.” He caught her
quicksilver smile. “What is it?”
“Bram says something similar about you.”
“Really?”
“Fastidious is what he said.” Clearly, Comfort saw,
it was a word Bode had never applied to himself. “Maybe he meant it
in the sense that you are particular and difficult to please.” She
saw he wasn’t bothered at all by that description. It made her
wonder again about his reluctance to remove his shoes.
When they reached the street, Bode hung back.
“You’ll be careful?”
“I always am.”
“No one is any one thing always.”
Comfort didn’t miss his gently mocking tone or her
own words coming back at her. “I’ve heard that also.” She pointed
across the street to where a young Chinese girl appeared suddenly
from the shadowed, narrow passage between two great houses. She
carried a basket over her arm and wore a dou lì, the traditional
conical straw hat, on her head. Her long queue had fallen over her
right shoulder and lay like a rope of black silk against her white
tunic. “That’s Suey Tsin. She’s been waiting for me.”
“What, there? All this time?”
“I’m afraid so, but that was her choice. She didn’t
accompany me here. She followed. She disagreed with my decision to
walk rather than take a carriage.”
“You could have asked Hitchens to show her to the
servants’ entrance. She could have waited for you in the kitchen.”
He was aware that Comfort was regarding him oddly. “What?” he
asked.
“Let me say only that she wouldn’t have been
welcome and leave it at that.” She waved to Suey Tsin. “I’m glad
you’re feeling better, Mr. DeLong. I wish you well.” With that, she
stepped off the curb and began walking across the street to where
Suey Tsin waited for her.
The Jones Prescott Bank was located on Powell
Street in the block between Post and Sutter. The bank had an
imposing granite front, but the rest of the building was brick
construction, most of it salvaged from structures that had
collapsed in the tremblers that plagued the city. If one examined
the bricks closely, there was charred evidence that fire often
followed the quakes. Still, from any side, the bank looked
impressively solid, which was exactly how Newton Prescott and
Tucker Jones wanted it to be seen. Their last names were chiseled
deep into the frieze above the doorway, the order having been
decided eighteen years earlier, not alphabetically, but by the flip
of a coin.
Bram DeLong strolled into the bank on Monday
morning and waited his turn at one of the teller cages to inquire
after Comfort. He knew she had an office on the second floor, but
he had never visited her there. In fact, he’d only been to Jones
Prescott on two previous occasions, one time to seek a loan that
would not come to the attention of his mother or his brother, and
the second time to repay it. He couldn’t depend on Mr. Bancroft at
Croft Federal to keep the transaction confidential, and it was only
prudent that Alexandra not learn the extent of his gambling
debts.
Bram dealt exclusively with Tucker Jones, not only
repaying the loan, but all of the interest. His mistake had been to
pay the loan back immediately after his luck turned at the tables.
He knew the quick repayment had confirmed Tucker’s suspicions that
the loan was for gambling debts, not to buy into a railroad
venture. The next time Bram needed funds, he applied for them at
Wells Fargo.
Bram passed one large empty office with two desks
turned to face each other. It was the office where he’d sat with
Tucker Jones to discuss his loan, but he felt safe in assuming that
it was the one that Tucker shared with his partner. He passed
several other rooms, all closed off, that he thought were probably
for files and general storage.
He found Comfort’s office at the end of the hall.
Her door was open, as were both windows. A light breeze ruffled
tendrils of hair that had the good sense to escape the chignon at
the back of her head. That nest of hair, Bram noticed, appeared to
be held in place by a tortoiseshell comb and two pencils. There
were several documents fanned out in front of her, one held down by
the corner piece of a charred brick, another by the weight of a
book, and in one case, by an actual crystal paperweight. She looked
over the reports—and even from where he stood, Bram could see they
were boring—while twirling a pencil against her lips and
occasionally nibbling it like a dainty beaver.
She was so entirely engrossed in what she was
doing, he realized she had no idea that he was standing just some
eight feet away.
“I can’t say that I enjoy being so completely
irrelevant.”
Comfort gave a start. She fumbled with the pencil
at her lips so clumsily that she nearly poked herself with
it.
“Careful,” said Bram. “If you do injury to your
eye, you’ll only be good as a bookend with Bode.”
“Lord, but you scared me.” She tossed the pencil
away from her and sat back in her chair. Her expression remained
startled. “Where did you come from?”
“Downstairs. I spoke to one of the tellers. That
was all right, wasn’t it? I mean, you do occasionally take visitors
in the inner sanctum.”
She laughed at the drama and mystery he infused
into “inner sanctum.” “Occasionally. But this is a first for
you.”
“It is.” He looked around. Besides the desk there
were two plain wooden chairs, three file drawers, and a small table
littered with more detritus of her work. The back wall held her
framed diploma from Oberlin, and between the windows there was a
watercolor of a Pacific coast sunset. He lifted his chin toward it.
“Is that your work? I didn’t know you had any talent for
painting.”
“That’s because I don’t. And if I did, I still
wouldn’t display it here. Uncle Newt painted that. He gave it to me
before he left me at Oberlin. There was never the slightest chance
that I wouldn’t come back to San Francisco, but Newt is convinced
his painting had something to do with my return.” She smiled slyly
as she swiveled in her chair. “Uncle Tuck’s threats were equally
unnecessary.”
“Did I ever write that I thought about staying in
Boston?”
“No. Never.” She would have remembered because it
would have broken her heart. “Did you consider it seriously?”
He turned a charming and falsely modest grin on
her. “Now, Comfort, what sort of question is that?”
“A serious one.”
“And?”
“And you don’t answer those.”
“That’s right.”
She just shook her head, amused, but perhaps not as
amused as she would have been before he announced their engagement.
“What are you doing here? That’s not too serious a question, is
it?”
“No. I’m here to suggest that you accompany me to
the opera house next Tuesday. It’s the opening of Rigoletto,
and I have it on good authority that no expense was spared in the
production.”
“Which opera dancer told you so?”
“Amusing, but you’re wrong. It was one of my
mother’s friends. Newland Jefferson. He’s one of the
producers.”
“I know Mr. Jefferson.” She considered what it
would be like to sit beside Bram in his family’s box for the length
of Rigoletto and be the recipient of envious, covert stares
and hushed asides. Attending the event would make their engagement
more real to the public. “Will your mother be there?”
“Yes. A proper affair, with chaperone.”
“I do like the opera,” she said wistfully.
“I know. And your uncles hate it.”
That decided her. “All right, but if this is the
beginning of your campaign to extend our engagement beyond eight
weeks, I feel compelled to remind you it won’t work.”
“It’s one evening, Comfort.”
That was true, she thought, but he was already
grinning like he’d pulled a gold nugget out of a claim he’d just
staked. Before she could think better of her answer, he was
pivoting on his heel and heading back down the hall. She thought he
might be whistling.
Shaking her head and smiling softly to herself,
Comfort picked up her tooth-marked pencil and returned to reading.
She’d just found her place when her chair listed sideways and the
floor rumbled under her. She dropped the pencil and grabbed the lip
of the desk to steady her. She held on until the thump and crash
coming from the direction of the stairwell shot her to her
feet.