Blessed Assurance (24 page)

The two angry men strode to their autos—Hunt's REO and Bower's Pierce Arrow. Linc stood near the front of their vehicles, waiting for the assistants to crank the starters. Bower and Hunt donned their goggles and driving gloves. The Pierce Arrow surged to life. Then the REO engine caught. The assistants leaped out of the way. Linc raised the white flag.

“Wait!” Cecy shouted over the engines roaring. She'd teach Hunt to make free with her reputation. “My champion must wear my favor into battle!” She ran to Bower and tied her driving veil around Bower's neck. Standing on the running board, she flashed Hunt a daggerlook. Cecy stepped down, her heart racing with her own audacity.

“Ready, set, go!” Linc slashed the flag down.

Hunt and Bower surged forward. Bower's Pierce Arrow took the lead. The cars were to race three laps around a loop of paved road, circling Spreckels Lake. As the racers passed Linc the first time, he flashed the flag and shouted, “One!”

Cecy was breathlessly caught up in the excitement.

Bower's longer, more powerful car outclassed Hunt's REO. Finishing another lap, the two drivers sped toward Linc again. “Two.”

On the last lap, Hunt sped up and edged close to Bower, crowding him, endangering both. Bower leaned forward obviously flooring the accelerator and moved another yard ahead of Hunt.

Cecy danced on her toes. “Mr. Bower! You can beat him!”

The two autos widened at the turn and raced on, Hunt still trying to edge ahead, but to no avail. Bower drove through the tape hastily strung up across the starting line. The young audience burst into applause and cheers.

Cecy rushed forward to congratulate Bower. He drew both her hands in his and kissed them. “Dear Miss Jackson.”

Cecy cast a triumphant look at Hunt. He glared back at her. She froze. She'd heard of looks that could kill. Now she knew how one felt.

 

The tinkling laughter, dancers swirling around the polished floor, and the fragrance of vanilla-scented candles filled Linc with dread. Cecilia's long-awaited opera party was in full swing. He felt like he was at the city's Cinograph Theater watching a movie depicting the lavish French court before heads rolled in the Revolution.

Cecilia, dressed in an extravagant light green satin gown, floated through the gathering with her constellation of admirers, mainly Bower. In addition, Cecilia's novel touch—the principals of the opera cast of
La Bohème
still in costume—mingled with San Francisco society.

Hunt made his dashing entrance and went directly to the beautiful Mimi, the soprano of the opera cast. Linc observed his flushed face. Could Hunt be inebriated already? Linc's somber mood deepened. Who knew what that kiss this afternoon might provoke?

“Mr. Wagstaff?”

Linc glanced down into Fleur's pretty face. “Good evening, Miss.”

She smiled, but her eyes held worry. “May I speak to you?”

To forestall speculation about their conversation, Linc led the lady into the dance. The bouncy two-step tempo contrasted with the young woman's serious expression. Finally she glanced up. “You and I are both strangers here, so perhaps we are aware of things others more familiar overlook.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Miss Jackson should flirt less.” The Southern belle looked away. “Mr. Hunt is not a boy to be trifled with. I don't think she comprehends…”

“The stakes are higher than she realizes?”

“I fear they are,” the lady murmured.

The two-step ended. Linc bowed, thanking Miss Fourchette for
the dance and her concern. With renewed purpose, Linc spotted Cecilia and headed for her. Just then the small orchestra struck a chord for attention. Everyone quieted.

Cecilia's aunt stood beside the orchestra leader. “As part of this evening's entertainment, our friends from the opera company will periodically sing a brief selection from
La Bohème.
Monsieur Rodolfo and Mademoiselle Mimi, if you please?”

The tenor and soprano who portrayed two of the four poor young “bohemians” in Paris drew in front of the orchestra.

The music had no power over Linc now. He had to prevent the imminent disaster. Moving through the crowd, he approached Cecilia's aunt. Though he faced forward so none would know he talked privately with her, he whispered, “Miss Higginbottom, are you aware that Hunt kissed your niece today at the auto race?”

“Kissed her?” Her tone could have frozen boiling water.

“Yes, Bower and he nearly came to blows over it.”

“I had entrusted Cecilia to
your
care, sir.”

Linc acknowledged this with a nod. He had done his best, but Hunt had crossed the line. “I cannot control a man who isn't in control of himself. Are you aware of Mr. Hunt's poor reputation with women?”

“Cecilia didn't inform me of Mr. Hunt's latest affront. But I have persuaded her to depress that man's pursuit of her.”

The woman's words didn't reassure Linc. The duet ended and was greeted with applause, and Cecelia's aunt went forward to thank the singers. Linc approached Cecilia and saw Hunt toss down another whiskey at the bar. He had to make her listen to him. “May I have a word with you, Cecilia?”

“Just for a moment.” She accepted the arm he offered her.

Leading her away from the center of the room, he longed to shield her from the menacing undercurrents in her own ballroom. “This afternoon I believe you saw a side of Victor Hunt you've been blind to before.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

He nodded. “You are a gently reared young lady, so I cannot be plain about this. Hunt has a very bad reputation—especially with women.”

She shrugged. “Hunt's outrageous kiss was too much. I don't need or want that man's attentions as he will soon learn—”

Bower approached them. “Dear lady, this is our dance.”

With profound resignation, Linc bowed. Cecy walked away on Bower's arm. Soon they danced the new ragtime one-step.

Clarissa was pursuing Hunt who made sure to keep his distance. The man looked unsteady—how much had he drunk before arriving? Were Linc and Miss Fourchette the only ones here who were thinking clearly?

Gliding through the slower Boston waltz, Cecy couldn't remember ever feeling so blissful. Her daring decision to include the visiting opera company's young attractive singers as guests, not merely entertainment, had added a definite éclat to the whole evening.

Hunt danced by, holding the soprano tightly in his arms. Cecilia would put him in his place once and for all. But more important than that, she had a surprise for everyone, her own personal triumph. Her longed-for link to the opera would be forged this evening. As a lady, she could never sing professionally. But as a generous supporter of the opera, she'd vicariously live the musical life. After tonight she'd never again be alone, cast out, or ignored.

The clock struck two o'clock. Cecy glowed with anticipation. Her moment, her triumph had come.

Always the gentleman, Bower led her to the orchestra, bowed, and left her. She would reward him with a chaste kiss this evening and tell Hunt she'd rejected him. Rodolfo joined her. The orchestra began to play the pensive music from the final scene of
La Bohème
, the scene where recalling their first meeting, Mimi dies in Rodolfo's arms.

Aware of the surprise in the faces before her, Cecy bowed to
the gathering. Then she sang to Rodolfo, “I've so many things to tell you, or one thing—huge as the sea, deep and infinite as the sea…I love you…you're all my life.”

Cecy's exquisite voice and passion tugged at Linc's emotions once more. Her voice had the power to lift him out of himself to see life in all its fullness. God had given Cecilia the gift to touch hearts, make them feel pity and draw them to a sensation of glory, of human love. If she only knew of God's love and showed it to others.

Cecilia's voice soared with pathos, tragic love, then death. Many women dabbed at their eyes. The orchestra fell silent. Cecilia, as Mimi, sank into Rodolfo's arms. He cried out in agony, “Mimi! Mimi!”

In the echoing silence, Hunt lunged forward. “You sing like an angel.” He went down on one knee. “Dear lady. Be mine.”

Cecy straightened up, pushing away from him. “You forget yourself, sir.”

Hunt stood. He pushed the tenor who was trying to shield Cecilia away. “I love you. Be mine.”

Bower, Archie, and Linc rushed forward. Behind them, Clarissa shrieked, “No! He loves me!”

Archie turned back, took hold of Clarissa, and drew her away. Bower grabbed Hunt by the shoulders. “You're a disgrace. How dare you address a lady when it's obvious you're stinking drunk?”

Linc tried to thrust himself between Hunt and Bower as Rodolfo dragged Cecilia aside. Hunt swung at Bower. The two men struggled. They crashed into the assembled orchestra, scattering the musicians clutching their instruments. Ladies screamed.

Father, help me stop them. This could destroy Cecilia.
Linc pursued Hunt and Bower. He had to end this embarrassing scene before someone got hurt. He circled the two men exchanging punches. Bower answered each of Hunt's blows. But Hunt's drunken state started slowing him. Linc edged around them waiting for a chance to help Bower subdue Hunt.

Bower delivered what should have been a stunning blow. But
Hunt dodged it. He reached behind himself, then flashed a knife in Bower's face.

The glitter of honed-steel stunned Linc. Bower caught Hunt's wrist. Linc jumped back—fearful of interfering, of causing more harm than good. Hunt's knife reduced fisticuffs to a barroom brawl. The two men struggled; the knife their focus. Their grunts and tortured expressions cast a common horror through the stunned, silent audience.

Linc broke free of the nightmare. He edged forward, waiting for the moment he could help Bower.

Hunt tripped Bower and Bower stumbled forward. The knife flashed up, slicing Bower's cheek. Cecilia sailed past Linc. She threw herself on Hunt—shrieking, “Stop!” Shocked, Hunt sprang back, dropping the knife.

Linc rushed to Bower. He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to Bower's face. “A doctor!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned by Cecilia's.

“You worthless men!” she screamed. “You've ruined everything!”

Hunt, looking dazed, objected, “But—”

“Do you think I'd marry you? Either of you!” Her voice vibrated with vitriol. “I will never marry! I hate you!”

To stop her from doing more harm to herself, Linc grabbed Cecilia's shoulders and shook her violently. A shocked gasp echoed
through the crowd. “She's hysterical.” Cecilia collapsed against him, white-faced and sobbing. “Someone summon a doctor!”

The assemblage remained frozen. Then Bower's mother rushed to her son's side. “My son!”

As though awakening, Hunt turned and pushed his way through the throng, releasing the audience from its stupor. Voices of condemnation, panic burst forth.

Still burdened by Cecilia, Linc shouted, “Stop Hunt!” But it was too late. The rogue had escaped.

Cecilia struggled vainly in Linc's arms. “Oh, let me go. They've ruined everything.”

 

Cecy looked down into her coffee cup. Instead of creamy coffee, she saw bright red blood, dripping down Bower's starched white shirtfront. She covered her face with trembling hands and closed her eyes. And she couldn't help but remember the other scene, two days ago—the Saturday promenade on crowded Montgomery Street.

Cecy, walking beside her aunt, had marched down the avenue. Auntie's plan was to face society after the “dreadful scene” and turn popular opinion in their favor.

“Auntie, maybe we should have waited until more time has passed before appearing in public.”

“Nonsense. No one can blame you for what happened the other night.”

The knife fight had made the front page of every newspaper. Headlines like
SWAINS FIGHT DUEL OVER LADY LOVE
,
DASTARDLY FIGHT AMID THE HIGH LIFE
still made Cecy cringe. “But the papers—”

“Journalists always revel in lurid detail. No genteel person will pay any attention to such disgusting sensationalism.”

Mrs. Ward and her protégé, Ann, approached them.

“Mrs. Ward.” Auntie smiled sweetly. “Good day.”

The lady barely glanced in their direction.

“Cecilia—” Ann began.

Mrs. Ward quickened her pace, pulling Ann along with her.

Ice shards pierced Cecy's heart, nearly making her cry out.

“Well,” Auntie huffed. “In Boston that woman wouldn't figure in society at all. Her father was a buffalo hunter for the railroads, for goodness sake.”

People, strolling or riding by in carriages, ignored both of them. Each step took on a more hideous quality. Cecy began to shrivel, fade, become invisible.

Fleur Fourchette, beside her aunt in her carriage, did look at Cecy. But with such pity. Humiliation clogged Cecy's throat like bitter coffee grounds. After that, each averted glance, each snub sizzled into her heart like a hot iron.

At the end of the block, Aunt Amelia motioned for their coachman to pick them up. In the bright mocking sunshine of early spring, they'd driven home in agonizing silence. Then Auntie had taken to her bed and hadn't permitted Cecy into her room since.

Now the smell of buttered toast and eggs brought Cecy back to the present, nauseating her. She shoved back her chair. She lurched past the butler and fled to the conservatory at the rear of the first floor. In the past three days since the opera ball, Cecy'd found refuge amid the plants there. From the glass dome above, the pale light of morning hung like a pall over the room. She sank into a chair beside a drooping fig tree.

Waves of panic rippled through her. The silence of the huge mansion pressed in on her. The servants spoke in whispers and crept around the house as though someone were dying. Maybe they were right. She'd faced much in her life, but how could she face ruin, social death? Even her ability to feel anger at Hunt had waned. In spite of the agony it caused her, she'd read each day's papers because of her concern for Bower.

Was he recovering? She stood up abruptly and hurried to the library where a phone was. Picking up the ornate receiver, she waited for the operator's voice. “Please connect me with two-three-six.”

The connection was made. A formal voice said, “The Bower residence.”

“Hello…” She almost gave her name, but decided against this. “How is Mr. Bower, Clarence Bower?”

“Mr. Bower's condition is stable. Who may I say is calling?”

“Just a friend. Thank you.” Slowly, she put the receiver down. At least, the man who'd come to her assistance was mending.
But what am I to do?
For a second the thought of appealing to God flickered in Cecy's mind. She snuffed it. Even if God were here, He didn't care anything about Cecy. He proved that years ago.

She paced the Aubusson carpet in front of a wall of leather-bound books. With each step, the injustice of the rejection she was suffering swelled inside her. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Miss?” Her butler stood in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Your aunt would like to see you in the foyer.”

“Foyer?” Why was Auntie there? Cecy brushed past him and sped down the hallway and grand staircase.

In a black traveling suit, her aunt faced her. Valises, hatboxes, and a trunk surrounded her. The appalling sight checked Cecy. Why had Auntie packed everything? Why hadn't any of Cecy's luggage been packed, too? “Auntie, what's wrong?”

“Cecilia, I have decided it's time, past time for me to visit your grandfather in Boston.”

Cecy reeled as though she'd been slapped. “Boston?”

“Yes, I leave in an hour by train—”

“Leave?”

“Yes, I must wish you farewell for a time.” Auntie pursed her lips in a chilling grin.

Clutching the railing, Cecy gasped. “You can't mean you're leaving me.”

Auntie's mouth spread into a flat, frigid smile. “You've established yourself here now, so I feel I can leave—”

“Established? That's a lie.” She ran down the steps.

“Cecilia,”
Auntie checked her sternly. “You must learn not to let your emotions run away with you.”

Cecy stopped on the bottom step. “You can't go. Everything's awful! I need you!”

“You're exaggerating.” Looking away, the older woman pushed one of her jet hatpins in tighter.

Cecy felt as though the hatpins were being jabbed into her skull. “Then I'll go back to Boston with you—”

“That's not possible.” Auntie scowled. “You force me to be unkind. You'll be as socially unacceptable in Boston as you are here.” Her aunt's voice chilled further with each word. “This isn't fifty years ago. There are telephones, the telegraph. Everyone in Boston knows of your disgrace by now.”

“Europe then,” Cecy pleaded.

Glaring at Cecy, her aunt shook her head. “I had high hopes for you. We could've had a good life together. But you have proved to be a complete disappointment.” Auntie's voice rose shrilly. “After all my efforts, you managed to spoil everything just like your mother.”

“There must be some way we can repair—”

Ignoring her, Auntie adjusted one of the buttons at the wrist of her black glove. Her voice hardened. “There is no longer any connection between us. I warned you about the lot of a spinster in society. I must be absolutely scrupulous in my social connections.”

“Auntie.” Cecy choked on panic, pain, shock.

“Goodbye, Cecilia.” Her aunt turned her back and marched to the door. The butler and footmen carried her luggage outside. The door shut. Cecy sank to the carpeted steps. She held her head in her hands and moaned without words. She couldn't stop shaking.

Finally, she dragged herself into her room and collapsed onto her bed. The curtains were drawn; the room lay in shadow—just like her life. Thoughts, words, and images spun out of her control. Her life had ended. Auntie, the only family she'd ever known, had abandoned her. Tears oozed from her eyes. How could she still have tears? Was the supply endless? Moaning hoarsely, she buried her head in her feather pillow.

Her aunt's heart-crushing words pounded her down into total
despair—“Just like your mother.” No. Hopelessness suffocated her. She flung herself off the bed, striking her head against the wall. Slumping to the carpet, she felt as though bony hands were dragging her down into a swirling black abyss.

 

“Miss Jackson?” a timid voice whispered hours later.

Cecy opened her eyes. The room was dark.

“Miss Jackson?”

It was her maid. “Go away,” Cecy muttered. Her mouth was dry and tasted bad.

“Cecilia.”

At the sound of a man's voice, she shrank back. “Go away!”

Firm, heavy footsteps shuddered from the floor through her as he crossed the room. Mr. Wagstaff bent, gathered her up into his arms.

“No,” she whimpered.

He spoke to the maid: “Please pack her a bag for an overnight stay.”

Cecy gasped. “What do you mean an overnight stay?”

He ignored her feeble struggling and carried her out the door. “I'm taking you home with me.”