Blessed Assurance (22 page)

The ladies surged to their feet, applauding. The virtuosity of the solo had been stunning, stirring. Linc shouted, “Bravo! Bravo!” Miss Jackson curtseyed.

He realized then in her singing he'd finally seen—for the first time—the real Cecilia. Grief, sympathy, tenderness—they'd poured from her lips. What had wounded her so, made her feel so profoundly? And why did she hide this depth?

A beautiful, young woman with a heart full of compassion would have been an irresistible combination, one that could have
San Francisco for the asking. Linc longed to tell her, “Cecilia, the woman you're hiding could shake San Francisco to its foundation. Take off the mask.”

 

Linc walked up Market Street to the corner of Third where
The Call
and
Examiner
buildings stood on opposite corners. As a newspaperman, he knew all the stories of this brash city, famous for its newspapers. The
Examiner
, “The Monarch of the Dailies,” was William Randolph Hearst's paper. Ten years before,
The Call
had been sold in an all-day auction for $360,000. The
Chronicle
stood across the street, its skyscraper clock tower reminding Linc to get to the
Bulletin
office to turn in his copy on the afternoon tea.

Hurrying on, he wondered if he'd succeed in the newspaper world of this city. The new Progressives were changing the East and South. But the complacent fashionable wealthy of San Francisco needed shaking up to use their means in bettering the future of America. The West needed a voice raised for social justice.

But was he that voice? Learning the real Cecilia Jackson hid behind a veil had shaken his confidence. He'd believed Cecilia was a merely spoiled, rich deb. A girl who flaunted her wealth and had no knowledge of what gaining that wealth had cost others. He'd been so sure he'd had her all figured out. He'd been wrong.

Entering the cluttered desks and listening to the ticker tape run in the
Bulletin
offices, he experienced a sharp jab of homesickness. Leaving the
Tribune
months ago had been like tying off an artery.

He walked back out into the chill evening, mist swirling up, his spirits floundering.

“Wagstaff?”

Linc turned to see a tall, raw-boned man with a walrus mustache in the
Bulletin
doorway. “Yes?”

“I'm Fremont Older, managing editor.” He offered his hand.

Recognizing the name, Linc shook with him. Older, who'd started out as a “tramp” printer, was a big man in San Francisco journalism. So what did Older want of him?

“Got a minute?”

“Certainly,” Linc said.

Older led him inside to his large office. The two sat down facing each other. “How'd you get the only invite to that Jackson tea?”

Linc looked up, amused. “Yes, it is a foggy evening.”

“Eh?” Older glared at him.

“Sorry. Your directness startled me. I just endured an afternoon of genteel, ladylike conversation.” But Linc'd heard some very unladylike conversation this afternoon—not only from the two hats, but from Cecilia Jackson, too.

Older's face cleared; he chuckled. “Not much of an assignment for a real newsman.”

Linc nodded, unwilling to discuss why Cecilia had invited only him. He'd made the mistake of thinking she was still an innocent, not past her first youth like he was. He'd struggle writing a column of meaningless pleasantries. The hidden Cecilia Jackson was the real story. The one he couldn't tell.

“So what do you think of the daring Miss Jackson and her stuffy Boston aunt?”

Linc hated being less than candid, but he didn't want to further rumors. “I'm undecided,” Linc replied. “I think I have her figured out, then she shows another side of herself.” That was the truth—though barely.

“I'm trying to find out if she fits her family.” Older steepled his fingers.

Linc's expression asked Older to go on.

“Her father, August Jackson, was the son of a German immigrant who didn't come to pan for gold. After taking the name Jackson, he set up shop extorting money from the forty-niners. One dollar for an egg—that kind of thing. When August came of age, he showed the same business shrewdness and greed. Instead of dissipating his father's wealth, he doubled it.”

Linc wondered why Older was telling him this.

Older leaned back in his chair. “Her father's one talent and religion was making money. I'm not a religious man, but August Jackson violated at least nine of the Ten Commandments—more
than once. Never heard him accused of murder. But he had a nasty temper.”

The words chilled Linc. He'd never known his own father, who'd been a casualty of the Civil War, but his stepfather had been a true father to him. “Poor Miss Jackson.”

Older shook his head. “I doubt she has much memory of him.”

Linc gave Older a startled glance. “He died just last year.”

“That's right. But his daughter grew up in Boston.”

“I knew she went to school there, but I thought she was there for finishing school.”

“No, she was sent away at seven.”

“Seven?” Linc asked, shocked.

“This is the story. August was so bad, no girl in San Francisco would marry him, no decent girl. So he went back East, put on a good show, and married a Boston girl. Back in San Francisco, when the Boston girl finally realized what she'd married, she sent the daughter to boarding school in Boston near her unmarried sister. The aunt that came with Cecilia from Boston.”

“Why didn't the mother just take the child and go home?” Linc asked.

Older shook his head. “Father disowned her for marrying Jackson.”

“I've heard she's at a sanitarium in the mountains. Why?”

“No one knows for sure. Could be insanity or…” Older held up one hand. “Miss Jackson's a stranger in her hometown. Everyone in society is waiting to see if she'll turn out like her father.”

Linc frowned. Cecilia Jackson was playing a daring game trying to impress society. Was she aware that people might be watching for signs of her father's bad blood. Just as in the gossip they'd overheard?

“So how did you get the only invite today?”

Linc looked up. He couldn't tell the truth—that Cecilia had wanted to make him dance on the end of her string. “I extricated her from a minor unpleasantness at the Ward ball.” Maybe he could talk to the aunt.

“Makes sense.” Older nodded. “Are you likely to get more invitations?”

“Might.” Grateful for the information Older had given him, Linc explained, “I've got Boston connections myself.”

“I know. Boston bankers.” Older grinned.

Linc nodded. Older had done his homework.

“The
Bulletin
will be glad to buy any more society articles you can get.”

Chagrined, Linc nodded noncommittally. “I really want to get my journal operating.”

“Heard you're a muckraker. You'll find a lot of muck to rake here, starting with Mayor Schmitz. A political puppet for the Reuf gang. Corruption is so thick and rich in this town you could cut it with a butter knife.”

“Politics isn't my focus.”

“What is?” Older leaned forward.

“Children and their welfare. Have you heard of the National Child Labor Committee?”

“Can't say I have.”

“Well, you and the rest of this city's about to hear all about it.”

 

Leaning forward in her seat in the darkened opera house, Cecy tried to lose herself in the melodious duet between deceitful Lt. Pinkerton and his trusting Japanese bride—Cio-Cio-San, or Butterfly.

Restless, Cecy couldn't rid herself of the images from her afternoon visit to the sanitarium. Her mother's pale face. Her listless eyes, nervous fingers. The year before at Cecy's father's funeral, her frail mother in the care of a nurse had collapsed and been returned to the sanitarium. Auntie had said her mother was too sick to leave the sanitarium and that the doctors discouraged visits, so they'd gone away to Europe. Cecy hadn't questioned this but should she have?

After the soprano's lilting notes died, the theater lights signaling the intermission came up to applause. Cecy pressed a lacy handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears that had nothing to do with the opera.

Her aunt in sedate gray velvet glanced around. “Gentlemen will visit our box. Be sure to give Miss Fourchette to our left a gracious nod. I'll keep a discreet watch to see if she receives more visitors than you.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Cecy struggled to keep a smile on her face. While the opera was being performed, she had tried to lose herself in it. Now her aunt demanded she perform on the social tightrope. But she'd show everyone she could attract and keep admirers who behaved as “gentlemen.”

After being declared Belle of 1906, she wouldn't spend the rest of her life in the shadows, an unfortunate spinster like her aunt or a broken woman like her mother. If she chose not to marry, no one would dare say it was because she'd had no offers. But what had happened to her mother? Or what exactly had she done to spoil her chances, as Auntie always told her? Why wouldn't Auntie ever tell her the whole truth?

Hunt, handsome in black evening dress, stepped through the box's velvet curtains. “Miss Jackson.”

Extending her kid-gloved hand, she wished she could turn away. Did Hunt actually think she'd accept an offer from someone as distasteful as he?

Arriving shortly after, Bower asked, “Will you be attending our masked ball?”

“A masquerade. How charming,” she replied by rote.

The lights flickered. The men said their adieux and left. Cool relief whistled through her. Now she could be alone again with her thoughts about her mother.

Auntie's voice intruded. “Bower stopped at Miss Fourchette's box first. I don't like that.”

And I don't really care
. Today, mother had merely stared at them both—as though she didn't know them. Finally, Cecy hadn't been able to hold back, “Mother, Auntie and I are living in San Francisco now.” Trembling, Cecy had taken up her mother's soft, limp hand. “We want you to get better and come to live with us.”

Her mother had stared at her, looking expressionless but somehow frightened. Finally she'd whispered, “I'm not well.” That was all. Cecy had craved so much more. They'd been apart so many years.

Then just before the lights went down for the next act, Cecy glimpsed that man, Wagstaff, across the theater. Handsome with his straight nose, square chin, and honey-colored hair, he drew her attention, but it wasn't his good looks. Gazing across at him, she tingled as his clear blue eyes connect with hers, piercing her, making her feel exposed.

Other gentlemen flattered her, begged for her favor. Not Mr. Wagstaff. Would he really take her to the auto race? Did she even want to speak to him again?

The opera went on. A stage cannon fired. Pinkerton's ship had arrived in the harbor. In awful irony, Butterfly rejoiced singing of her love and cherry blossoms. Tears ran down Cecy's face.

Linc shifted in his seat. Puccini's
Madame Butterfly
, the tragic story of an innocent girl who gives her love to a cad, paralleled too closely Older's story of Cecilia's parents. Did Cecilia know the truth? Should he try to warn her that her father's deplorable reputation placed her in social peril? Would she believe him if he did?

Linc watched Cecy's profile by the light from the stage. Dressed in a soft shade of pink, she matched the silk cherry blossoms on the stage. But her sadness showed clearly in the lines of her body: the dipping of her chin, the slump of her shoulders, the handkerchief dabbed at her eyes.

Linc longed to comfort her. The treacherous course she was on could bring more pain.
How can I get through to her?

Then the opera ensnared him again. Butterfly sang, longing for Pinkerton to return. It unleashed his own impossible yearning for his lost love, Virginia. A knot of agony clotted in his throat.
Lord, I know she's with you, but I can't let go.

Then on stage, learning of her husband's betrayal, Madame Butterfly sang in despair, “Goodbye, happy home, home of love.” He
looked up to Cecilia. As Butterfly's voice soared higher in anguish, steel bands tightened around Linc's heart. He recalled Cecilia singing as desperate Aida; her voice rivaled this soprano's.

Now that he knew the truth about Cecilia's family, Linc glimpsed her deep needs. A sudden urge to hold her in his arms and soothe her anguish with kisses and soft words rocked Linc to his foundation. He imagined the silky softness of her hair between his fingers…

Linc's chair began to sway. The stage curtains swished side to side as though a wind blew through the theater. Linc sat, petrified. On stage, the fake front of the Japanese house crashed down. The soprano screamed. Some woman shrieked, “Earthquake!” Linc leaped from his seat and raced toward the staircase to Cecilia's box.

Barely keeping his balance on the undulating floor, Linc brushed through the curtains of Cecilia's box. Cecilia was swaying but motionless.

“Get the girl!” The aunt escaped past Linc.

Heart pounding, Linc swept Cecilia into his arms. The theater stopped its rocking. Linc halted. Nervous laughter rippled throughout the audience. The stage curtains swished to a stop. In midshriek, the soprano fell silent.

Linc looked down at the woman in his arms and murmured, “Cecilia.” She smelled of spring flowers and her head rested on his shoulder. In spite of the corset, her womanly softness brought a rush of awareness that engulfed him. He pressed his face into the velvety fold of her neck.

Her dazed eyes cleared. “Mr. Wagstaff?”

“Just a tremor.” He carried her back to her chair. Aware of the impropriety of their intimacy, he tried to set her down.

But she clawed at his shoulders. “Don't leave me alone.”

The house lights went up. Linc didn't want people to see him embracing Cecilia even in these circumstances. He knelt, setting her on her chair, effectually hiding himself behind the sides of the box. “I won't leave you until you are recovered.”

She clung to him.

“I promise.” He captured her soft hands and tenderly drew them down. “It was just a tremor. Nothing bad is going to happen. It's over.”

“I-I've never felt anything like that,” she stammered.

“We're both newcomers here.” Though breaking their connection pained him, he drew his hands from hers.

Her aunt hurried back into the box. Linc helped the distraught older woman take her seat.

“Auntie, are you all right?” Cecilia's voice broke on the last word.

Applause drowned out Miss Higginbottom's reply. The curtain rose. The lights dimmed. A few bars of the overture announced the resumption of the opera. Still shaken, Linc bowed to both the ladies and walked to the rear of the box.

“Mr. Wagstaff, thank you.”

At the sound of Cecilia's voice, he turned. “My pleasure.” The velvet curtains fell into place behind him. He meant to walk back to his seat, but the lingering sensation of Cecilia in his arms made it impossible for him to return to sitting quietly. He walked outside, going home to check on Meg, Susan, and Del. The haunting melody of the tragic heroine's aria followed him out into the clear, cool night.

February 12, 1906

On Montgomery Street on a clear, crisp day, the elite were on parade to see and be seen, the Saturday-afternoon promenade. Cecy
slipped both hands into her stylish fox-fur muff. An emptiness squeezed inside her. What was so wrong with her mother that Auntie wouldn't discuss it? Did her mother have a fatal illness? Cecy half stumbled over uneven paving.

“Be careful,” Auntie grumbled beside her.

As they strolled, Cecy nodded and smiled to acquaintances, yet she felt like a mannequin. Wearing beautiful new clothing every day, instead of an ugly school uniform, still delighted her. However, the burden of conquering society weighed more and more. Her aunt had advised her that she must be declared the Belle of her season. Otherwise, when she didn't marry, she'd be pitied as a failure or an oddity for the rest of her life. She wanted to get past her season. Then she'd be free to get to know her mother. Wouldn't Auntie tell her if her mother's condition might prove fatal?

Victor Hunt crossed the street directly to Cecy. A disreputable air clung to him and he often smelled of spirits. Cecy forced a smile, but inside she hissed, “I don't trust you.”

Auntie began walking slower, letting Hunt draw Cecy ahead for a
tête-à-tête
. Cecy hated it when Auntie did that.

Just ahead of them, Fleur Fourchette alighted from a glossy black carriage with Clarence Bower's assistance. For once, Cecy was glad to see her, even in the company of the eligible Bower. With Fleur and Bower, Cecy would make their unwelcome twosome a foursome. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mr. Wagstaff across the busy street. She recalled his embrace and prickles ran down her arms. Later when she'd come to her senses, she'd been shocked at her own weakness over a mere tremor. Like some weak Nellie, she'd clung to him. Yet for those moments, she'd felt secure, safe. But why had he alone come to rescue her last night? The man must want something.

As though reading Cecy's mind, Fleur said, “Miss Jackson, wasn't that tremor just shocking? I told Auntie I just don't know how y'all live where there might be an earthquake any time.”

Across the street, Mr. Wagstaff paused and glanced her way. An intriguing new thought about how this man might be useful to
her came to her. As though the earth tremor hadn't disturbed her at all, Cecy smiled. “Don't you have hurricanes in Louisiana, Miss Fourchette?”

“But the two can't be compared.” Fleur held on to her rose-red felt hat against a gust of chill wind.

Auntie caught up with them. “Mr. Bower, I called your mother and accepted the invitation to your masked ball.”

Cecy turned the new idea about Mr. Wagstaff over in her mind.

“Normally I wouldn't allow Cecilia to attend. Some masquerades become routs. But your mother's assured me that you young gentlemen will keep the line.”

“Of course, ma'am,” Bower and Hunt replied.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Her large hat brim flapping in the wind, Cecy pushed her hatpins in deeper. Mr. Wagstaff threaded his way through the parading carriages across the street toward her. Could she persuade the newsman to help her once again?

Hunt drawled, “Well, Bower, have you finally decided what day you'd like our auto race to take place or are you going to admit defeat?” The contrast between the lazy way Hunt said the words and the dark intent in his eyes startled Cecy.

“I hear you've been wagering heavily on our race. Can't you afford to lose—” Bower began.

Fleur interrupted, “Oh, you men. What does it matter who has the fastest car?”

Cecy spoke up with forced pertness, “Auto races are exciting. Auntie and I witnessed one in Monte Carlo.”

“Miss Jackson is more daring than I.” Fleur smiled. “She even owns an auto and plans to learn to drive it.”

Hunt half bowed to Cecy. “I'd be more than willing to take you out for a spin and teach you a few things.”

Aunt Amelia frowned at this clumsy double entendre.

Desiring to put Hunt in his place, Cecy waved to Mr. Wagstaff. He nodded, then strode toward her. Mr. Wagstaff was a reporter and reporters knew how to find out things. Now she needed information.

“I've seen Mr. Hunt drive and he appeared to be more interested in speed than style,” Bower spoke with a touch of steel in his tone.

Hunt's jaw hardened, but his words came out smoothly, “Bower, Miss Jackson can ask your sister just how exciting a drive with me can be.”

Bower took a step toward Hunt. Fleur touched his sleeve.

Mr. Wagstaff reached their group. “Miss Jackson, how may I be of service?”

His calm voice halted the tense exchange. Cecy was positive this man could find out the truth about her mother's illness. She grinned as she asked the question that would confound Hunt and create a way to talk privately with the journalist. “Mr. Wagstaff,” she improvised, “I just wanted to remind you of your offer to teach me how to drive.”

She was pleased to see how chagrined both Hunt and Bower looked. That would teach them not to cause these unpleasant scenes.

The newspaperman bowed. “Anytime, Miss Jackson.”

Cecy beamed. The man was intelligent enough to go along with her. He hadn't offered her lessons, merely to take her to the auto race. But Hunt's stiff expression pleased Cecy.

 

At Bower's masquerade, in an Elizabethan costume rented from Goldstein's, Cecy was certain no one recognized her behind her mask and red wig. Tonight Cecy sought Mr. Wagstaff. He could find the truth about her mother. She just hoped the condition wasn't something shameful that he might write up as news. But how could she recognize him? No dance cards. Identities remained secret until midnight when the masks came off.

A masked and hooded medieval monk took her hand and led her into a merry polka. “I did not know monks danced,” Cecy said in a husky version of her voice, trying to get the monk to speak and reveal his identity through his voice.

“My child, are you tempting me to break my vow of silence?” he demanded in a scratchy, false voice.

Cecy knew she'd danced with this man before. As she stepped and hopped to the bouncy music, she scanned the crowded ballroom. She glimpsed a Musketeer with a blue-plumed hat over blond hair that might be Mr. Wagstaff. The polka ended. She curtseyed her thank-you, then drifted away.

Auntie said her father had sent Cecilia away. Now that he was dead, why didn't her mother want to come home so they could be together? A horrible new thought came—what if her mother suffered mental instability and that was why Auntie wouldn't tell her.

“Your majesty, would you favor this poor Musketeer with a waltz?”

Cecy turned to the courtly Musketeer. Maybe she could figure out his identity as they danced. “I find you worthy, kind sir. Let us waltz.”

He swept her into his arms. She tried to decide if this blond Musketeer danced with her the same way Mr. Wagstaff had. No. Clarence Bower? Then nearby she heard Fleur's distinctive trill laugh. So Fleur was Marie Antoinette. She caught her partner's eye.

He winked.

Perhaps she could take the night off from competing with Fleur. She toyed with the idea of just enjoying the evening. But at midnight, the masks came off. Everyone would know Cecy had been Queen Elizabeth. So the English queen must triumph over the French.

A tall Little Bo Peep danced by with the monk. The monk leered at Cecy as he went by, reminding her of Hunt. Her partner stiffened. Why? Bo Peep reminded her of someone. She was tall enough to be Bower's sister, but Cecy couldn't be sure. If her partner was Bower, he'd dislike Bo Peep dancing with the monk whom might be Hunt.

If only she could find Mr. Wagstaff and arrange her first driving lesson. An open car would preclude the need of her aunt's chaperonage yet give her the privacy she needed to discuss her mother with him. The waltz ended. Cecy regally swept away.

“Your Highness.” A Harlequin, a jester wearing a hat with tas
sels, stopped her. She wanted to ignore him, but he'd just partnered Marie Antoinette. Cecy swallowed her irritation, smiled, and let him lead her into the schottische. The Harlequin answered her with nods and smiles. But she'd smelled his spicy scent before. Mr. Wagstaff? But how could she ask him that before the masks were removed?

At the end of the dance, she turned to find the monk. He kissed her hand. The next dance, the galop, started. Cecy didn't want to dance with the monk; she was certain it was Hunt. But she must not be seen standing alone without a partner.

The electric lights went out. The orchestra cut off in ragged peeps and screeches. Cecy's own exclamation was cut off by a hand clamped over her mouth. Her assailant roughly dragged her through the French doors and out into the garden. In the cool night air, she struggled trying to free herself, trying to see who this was. But his strength overpowered her. The moonlight lit the garden, but her assailant had her clutched with her back to him.

“Help!” Cecy screamed silently into the hand. She clawed the arm that held her. The hand at her mouth lifted. She gasped, “Help!”

He struck her temple. Her senses swam. Suddenly released, she pitched forward, her head reeling. “Oh…oh…” She slumped onto the wet ground. There were sounds of a struggle. A man loomed over her.