Blessed Assurance (21 page)

Attending Cecilia's aunt's first afternoon tea as a journalist, Linc stood in the Jackson mansion's vast ivory-and-gold drawing room. Satins and silks in jewel tones, large decorated hats, lacy white handkerchiefs—all created a heady montage of high fashion and higher privilege. Linc was impressed by the attendance by San Francisco's finest, the wives and daughters of the richest men in the city—the Big Four of the Central Pacific Railroad and the Bonanza Kings of the Comstock Lode. Cecilia's aunt, a newcomer, evidently had the right touch or maybe her drawing card was her broad Boston accent.

Near Linc, the pretty debutantes of 1906 had gravitated to two ivory-brocaded sofas that faced each other. In apricot silk, Miss Jackson sipped tea from her translucent cup. “Are you enjoying your visit in San Francisco, Miss Fourchette?”

“Why, yes, San Francisco is so different from New Orleans.” The
attractive brunette's soft Southern drawl contrasted sharply with the touch of Boston in Miss Jackson's voice.

Mrs. Ward's protégé, a little brown sparrow named Ann, leaned forward. “I hear that your family is one of the oldest Bourbon families in New Orleans,” she said with obvious awe.

“That's somewhat true,” Miss Fourchette said self-deprecatingly. “My family is descended from one of the original French colonial families, but not all Bourbons are.”

“Really? Being raised in Boston, I know little of Southern society.” With a trace of derision in her smile, Miss Jackson set her cup and saucer without a sound onto the inlaid rosewood table.

Miss Fourchette smiled, but said nothing.

“Smart girl,” Linc silently commented.

The redhead had avoided him thus far. But he wasn't deceived. She'd taken the effort to discover his identity and have him invited as the freelance reporter to write up this tea. And in the midst of tepid debutante conversation, she was sizing him up.

“Oh, the photographer's arrived!” Cecy exclaimed. Out of the corner of her eye, she'd glimpsed that irritating reporter grin at her.

“Photographer?” Ann looked around dismayed.

“Yes, I'd like a photograph of the all debs who came out with me.” She'd thought long and hard to come up with a truly distinctive, modern favor for her guests. “Each of you will receive a framed print.” Cecy motioned them all to precede her, turning her back on
that man
.

Fleur smiled. “I'll treasure it.”

As Auntie introduced the photographer, she gave her a reminding look. Cecy nodded, recalling Auntie's advice. She was to appear modest during the picture-taking, but make sure she was central in the photographs.

Cecy had spent her life trying to be unnoticed. Fortunately, after her father's death, Auntie had taken her to Europe, had shown her what life could be. She'd learned about lavish hotel life, operas, parties, balls, champagne, and flirtation. She wouldn't give up her
freedom by marrying, but neither would she spend her life as a pitied spinster.

The photographer instructed, “Miss Jackson, will you stand beside the chair please?” She nodded and took her place, which would upstage all the other debs just as Auntie had planned.

When as a child she'd been banished to the Boston boarding school, she'd been robbed of this privileged life that should have been hers. Only once had her father provided her more than the others, extra music lessons. But Auntie was the one who'd requested them for her.

My whole life lies before me. I'll be the Belle of San Francisco. My reception for the Great Caruso during his visit in April will crown my social triumph. Then I'll be independent and get to know my mother.

She obeyed the photographer and tilted her head more toward him. She smiled for him, a real smile. For her future.

Linc looked on as the other guests called to the young ladies to stand up straight, to tilt their heads in different positions and to smile, smile. Linc worried that before the session ended, the beleaguered photographer would explode with one of his powder flashes.

Linc was aware of Miss Jackson's covert attention to him. Whenever she thought no one was looking, her gaze drifted to him. Was there some surprise she had in store for him? His mind worked on two levels: one watching and taking mental notes about the occasion for the article he'd write up for the
Bulletin
; the other leaped ahead trying to guess what Miss Jackson would say when she did speak to him.

The photographer shot his last negative, folded up his tripod, and escaped. The debutantes drifted toward the two sofas again. Linc followed them.

“What a truly original touch, Miss Jackson,” Fleur said. “I only wish someone had thought of it during my New Orleans come-out.”

Another deb, very scrawny and fair to almost colorless, said in catty satisfaction, “This is your second season too, then.”

Linc tried to place the plain deb. Someone had pointed her out to him.

“Why, yes, I feel almost greedy enjoying a second season. But my aunt has no daughter and she insisted I let her sponsor me here.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to have to do two seasons in two different cities,” shy Ann squeaked.

Fleur patted Ann's hand. “You've gotten off to a wonderful start. Mrs. Ward's ball was simply exquisite.”

“And it had quite
exciting
moments.” The plain girl grinned, her eyes straying toward Miss Jackson.

Recognition hit Linc. He'd done his society research. The plain girl was Clarence Bower's sister, the spurned Clarissa Bower. No wonder she sounded cross. Why would Hunt ever pay court to such a lanky and unprepossessing girl?

In response to Clarissa's jibe, Miss Jackson raised her chin, her eyes sparkling with unspoken wrath.

“Oh, you mean that silly little dust-up between those two gentlemen?” Fleur giggled. “High-couraged gentlemen can always be relied on to add a touch of drama to any evening.”

Linc paused. Once again he was impressed with the lady from New Orleans. Did Miss Jackson realize the signal service Fleur was executing for her?

With a mischievous grin, Fleur went on, “Why at my first ball, two gentlemen threatened to duel over me.”

Fleur gave her distinctive trill of laughter. “No duel took place. Though I suspect fisticuffs may have.”

The debs tittered at this. The plain Clarissa frowned.

“The incident was none of my doing,” Miss Jackson spoke up. “Men will be men, Auntie says.”

Linc shook his head. Why hadn't she remained silent? Fleur had effectively closed the subject without bringing Miss Jackson into it by name and dredging up the fiasco at the ball.

“Did you hear? Victor Hunt has a new auto,” Fleur again turned to a safer topic.

“Clarence got one, too,” Clarissa said, still sounding grumpy. “They're planning a race through the streets of San Francisco.”

Miss Jackson looked up. “An auto race. How exciting.”

“They might be hurt.” Little Ann sounded shocked.

“I doubt that.” Clarissa pointed her nose upward.

“I'm buying an automobile,” Miss Jackson declared. “I intend to learn how to drive it, too.”

Did she? Linc was intrigued in spite of himself.

Ann gasped. “Drive a car?”

Miss Jackson chuckled. “Why not? Autos don't rear up at the slightest thing.”

Interrupting them, Cecilia's aunt clapped her hands asking for attention. “Ladies, Miss Fourchette's aunt tells me that her niece is quite accomplished on the piano and has a lovely singing voice. Please help me encourage her to entertain us.”

All the ladies clapped. Fleur rose with convincing modesty. She moved to the other end of the vast drawing room, sat down at the dark grand piano and began to play and sing in a pretty voice, “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.”

Observing Miss Jackson drifting to the buffet table, Linc met her there. He busied himself choosing an appetizer from among the rich array of food.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wagstaff,” Miss Jackson said in a quietly triumphant voice.

He casually bowed. “Miss Jackson.” Then he turned back to the table.

“I found out who you are.”

“I never doubted you would,” he said, then popped a featherlight cheese puff into his mouth.

“It was I who asked Auntie to invite you here.”

“I thought so.” He spread caviar on a cracker.

She bristled. “Don't you want to know why?”

“I know why.” With an urbane smile, he accepted a cup of creamy tea from the Chinese waiter tending the table.

“You are the rudest man.”

He looked at her. “Do you really intend to drive an auto?”

“Yes, but—”

“I'll be happy to take you to the auto race.” He walked on down the buffet table.

With a curt swish of her skirts, she pursued him. “Mr.—”

He interrupted her, “You're still competing much too obviously against Miss Fourchette. You're going to end up in everyone's bad book.”

“If you're not careful about offending me, Auntie will make certain you're not invited to any more society functions.”

He shook his head at her. “If you think that, then you don't really know who I am.”

“Yes, I do.” She sounded hoarsely desperate. “You're a journalist who's starting up a weekly society journal.”

He chuckled. “Your sources aren't very reliable.” He walked away from her.

She trailed him until they were partially hidden by several potted plants behind a sofa. She hissed, “Don't walk away from me.”

At the other end of the vast drawing room, Fleur accepted applause, then agreed to sing another song, “Lorena.” The mournful song settled over the room. Even Cecilia fell silent.

Two matrons sitting on the sofa in front of them leaned toward each other to talk. From behind, Linc could see only their hats. The one in a brown felt hat said, “I don't care how good a front she puts up today. She caused that dreadful scene at Ward's ball—”

The other lady in a mauve hat nodded. “To be fair, Hunt and Bower compete in everything and now more since Hunt insulted Bower's sister.”

“Didn't Hunt's father insist his son marry Clarissa Bower or he'd disinherit him?”

“Never say so.” The mauve hat bobbed. “Do you think he's trying to marry a different fortune and best his father?”

The brown hat bent. “That Jackson chit better watch out. Hunt is interested in her money, not her.”

Uneasy, Linc watched Cecilia's stunned expression.

Mauve hat said, “She doesn't have a mother to guide her—”

“And why is that? Where is her mother?” the brown hat asked archly.

The mauve hat bent forward. “You know she's been ill at that sanitarium south on the way to Monterey for years.”

Linc hated hearing such unsympathetic gossip.
Why is Cecilia's mother in a sanitarium?

The brown hat tilted backward. “That's one way to say it. Neither her father's millions nor her mother's Boston background can blind me to the truth. Bad blood always comes out. Mark my words.”

Cecilia stiffened beside him. Fearing she might actually respond, he steered her by the elbow to a convenient anteroom.

“How dare they?” Miss Jackson's low voice shook with temper.

“I tried to warn you not to push yourself forward—”

“Auntie said that,” the redhead went on in a tone of dawning disbelief, “the scene the other night was merely a lack of tact by Bower and Hunt—a gaucherie.”

“Your aunt is a stranger here. She overestimates the Boston connection. That might actually work against you.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Who do you think you are? If you're going to succeed with your society paper, you need
my
good graces.”

Giving her a bleak look, he shook his head. “You've been misinformed. My journal will be about
social issues,
Miss Jackson, not society news.” He bowed and left her.

How did God expect him to use this young woman who was completely uninterested in anything beyond social ambition and seemed hell-bent on self-destruction? It had all seemed so plain to him in Chicago. Virginia's death had made him ready to leave. His inheritance had opened new opportunities for further social progress. And this redhead had fascinated him since he'd discovered her in his research. But had he gotten it all wrong?

Applause for Miss Fourchette's last song greeted him as he reentered the drawing room. Miss Jackson swept past him toward the piano.

Fleur stepped forward to meet her. “Are you going to sing for us now?”

Miss Jackson nodded imperiously.

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Miss Jackson moved in front of the piano keyboard. “I'll sing a capella.” Fleur left her alone by the piano.

Linc sincerely hoped Miss Jackson's anger hadn't led her into something foolhardy. Was her voice equal to the challenge of singing without piano?

She touched one key, sounding one high note. Then she faced them all, her eyes heavenward. Her rich voice soared above them all.

Linc recognized the aria from
Aida,
Verdi's tragic love story. When Aida discovers that the man she loves and her father will go into battle as enemies, she despairs, “Pity me, heaven.”

Linc stood, transfixed. The lady's glorious soprano voice swept him beyond his surroundings. The deep misery conveyed through her rich voice etched his aching heart, reminding him of all he'd lost these last few years.

Still he couldn't take his eyes off Cecilia. In the late afternoon sun flowing down from the skylight, her hair flamed. Her creamy white throat vibrated with song. The aria swept on. No one whispered. No one looked away.

Her voice reached higher, higher until the final plea to heaven. She flung out her arms in a gesture of despair. Then with the last, wrenching note, she bowed her head. Silence.