Authors: Rachel Cartwright
“Bret, how can you be so gloomy after—” A flock of squawking gulls flapped their wings and took flight from the sandy beach.
“My lovely lady.” Bret reached across the table and held her cool, quivering hand. “I would lay fresh garlands of roses at your feet every day if I could find one that deserved to share the sunlight next to you.”
Rebecca hung her head for a few moments. If she thought about the tender sweetness of his words long enough, perhaps it would cover the acrid bite of her uncle’s threats so that they might dissolve, leaving nothing but an unpleasant taste that she could wash away with one more sip of wine.
She gazed at the perfect blue of the sky and lifted the glass to her lips wishing for all the amorous exhilaration of the day, having risen to this wonderfully serene hour by the beach, to remain and not fly away with the careening scavengers overhead.
CHAPTER 16
Wednesday, September 5
Caden sat at his study desk, heavy with worry and waiting as he looked out the window facing the side garden. His energy and focus were diminishing and he needed to sleep to refresh himself in preparation for the final execution of his plan.
He clenched his fists, digging his long nails into the palms of his hands, steeling his constitution and body in anticipation of Rebecca’s return. The dear girl would do what she must to please that fool but she could never lose sight of the reason why . . . and what she had promised to do next.
Caden picked up the folded morning paper from the tray holding his pitcher of pure, distilled water and one sliced grapefruit. He unfolded the paper and quickly perused the front-page headlines.
Tropical Storm Savages the Florida Keys.
The scent of the cut fruit filled the air with its citrus fragrance, refreshing his listless senses and invigorating the flow of blood through his darkened veins.
Gale Force Hurricane May Follow.
“What violent change nature may bring,” he mused quietly, “is insignificant when compared to what one man may do if born with the conviction and raised to the position to realize his power.”
Finding little of interest in the sensational intrigues or political squabbles that filled the columns, he dropped the paper in the copper waste can at the side of his desk and returned to his deliberations on the fate of one Bret McGowan.
The longer Rebecca’s absence, the clearer the path he could force this philandering McGowan imbecile to walk. He stretched his back against the hardwood of the chair until he heard his vertebrae crack and shift.
Preoccupied with the next step in his strategy, he barely gave notice to his man, Edward, entering the open door of his study.
“She’s returned, sir.”
“What’s that?” Caden made a summoning motion with his right hand. “Well? Let her in. There is nothing for my niece to be ashamed of in my house.”
Edward looked over his shoulder toward the open door. “It’s not Rebecca.”
Caden’s heart pumped with the renewed vigor of anticipation. He adjusted his tie, and then brushed back his streaked hair with his fingers. “Then don’t stand there gaping like a zoo ape.” He straightened his suit coat and pants. “Show the gracious lady in at once.”
Gabrielle Caldwell entered carrying her folded parasol. At first glance he knew exactly what troubled thoughts lay behind the creamy white skin of her tormented expression.
“Please excuse my awkward greeting, Gabrielle,” he said, rising slowly with a bow. “I have an old injury that flares when it is particularly humid.” He smiled. “Or if we are expecting rain.”
“The farmers may want a downpour but I prefer the sun,” she answered swiftly, as if trying to disguise her anxiety beneath the veneer of mundane conversation. “It’s what draws the tourists to our wonderful city and beaches, isn’t it?”
She tapped the floor with the tip of her summer parasol and sat in a chair facing Caden’s desk. “The sun worshipers and any other worshiper of the flesh if the truth be known, isn’t that right, Cade?”
“Indeed,” he nodded, “Our weather seems to promote a certain carelessness . . . as though it were natural and fitting to be seduced by one’s senses when basking in a tropical clime.”
Gabrielle shifted forward to the front of her chair and placed her parasol across her lap. “I . . . I have made, or rather my father has, certain inquiries into your allegations concerning Bret, that is, Mr. McGowan.”
“And what,” he asked, lowering his voice, “if I may be so blunt in the presence of a lady, did your father discover?”
Gabrielle lowered her gaze. “Father says it’s true. There was this woman at Mr. Weems’s and that she was brutalized in some way by—” She raised her white-gloved hand to her closed eyes and rubbed them. “I always knew he was a cad but I never suspected him of such . . . such violent perversions.”
Caden made a concerted effort not to let a thin smile twist across his lips.
“Still . . .” she said, opening her eyes. “How did you come to know of this?”
Her expected question rewarded his patience even though she seemed unaware of the compassionate, unperceived emotion bringing her closer to him. “The repentant Mr. Weems hopes to improve his standing in Galveston society, Miss Caldwell. The witnessing of this disgusting act is a burden of depravity that even he is unable to bear. He has asked me for my advice in the matter.”
Gabrielle covered her mouth. “My God. Father mentioned nothing . . .” Her words flowed away with the single tear rolling down her face.
“As your close friend and confidant I am deeply sorry for the unpleasantness this has caused you. It is always a shock when people we admire are revealed to us in their true light.”
“I
don’t
admire him. I only feel pity for him and any woman who would allow—” She stood and wiped her cheek. “I can’t stand to talk about that man anymore. Just the thought that I was going to support him in this absurd oil scheme enrages me.”
“As it should. Any woman with the smallest modicum of self-esteem would be horrified by this.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you, an intelligent, sophisticated young woman of fine upbringing, should do everything in her power to treat this dog like the pariah he is.”
“And I trust you have told your niece to stay away from such a sick man? How could you allow her to attend church with him, let alone the two of them be seen in public together?”
Caden drew in a loud breath, aghast, confidant that his shocked expression was convincing without being melodramatic.
“My Lord, I . . . I had no idea, Gabrielle. I swear. Rebecca told me she was visiting Society members for a few days on the outskirts of the city. I trust her without question in all our business affairs but when Edward mentioned something this morning I . . .” Caden hung his head. “I didn’t . . . or couldn’t believe him.”
He let the heavy silence fill his study. Judging the time to be sufficient, Caden looked up and observed Gabrielle’s reaction. After some slight hesitation, she raised her face, revealing a sad beauty in search of some small joy in the midst of all this vulgarity.
“Oh my God. My niece too?” He shook his head. “No. I won’t allow this to happen. Thank you. You are a true friend and compassionate woman.”
“Oh Cade.” She reached over the desk and touched his hand. “We speak so openly and frankly I feel we can say anything to each other.”
“Yes, Gabrielle.” He covered her hand with his. “Those are my feelings too. From the first moment we met I knew we shared a similar intelligence, a kindred soul. I cherish your trust and confidence in me as a friend . . . and a man.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
She closed her eyes for a few moments and smiled for the first time since entering his study. She did not remove her hand from his lips until he guided it gently down to the desk.
“And I believe,” he continued, “there may still be a chance to help Mr. McGowan return to society’s good graces.”
Gabrielle’s eyes opened bright with curiosity.
“You see . . .” Cade leaned forward on his desk. “The root of this sort of destructive behavior lies in the unnatural abuse inflicted upon the body and mind when a person uses narcotic medicines in ways they were not intended. There is much recorded evidence in the history of these substances reaching back to the ancients.”
Gabrielle withdrew her hand from his. “But that’s the sort of thing that only affects those sad, miserable creatures in those terrible opium dens.”
“I wish I could say that was true. If it were only a problem for coolies and other undesirables, it would be one more reason for our government to restrict immigration, but . . .”
Cade pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “It reaches into every strata of our society and has for many years. I’ve heard that Mr. McGowan is never without his medication. Have you noticed that?”
“Y—Yes? He often gets terrible coughs, especially in this humid weather. He has ever since I’ve known him.”
“Strange.” Caden placed a bottle of
Winslow’s Baby Syrup and Kopp’s Baby Friend
on top of his desk. “He seemed quite composed when I met him. Never so much as cleared his throat.”
Gabrielle picked up one of the bottles and glanced at the label. “Many mothers use these to help their children sleep when they were sick. Everyone says they’re harmless.” She placed the bottle back down and picked up the other. “My mother, God rest her soul, never had any call to use them.”
“How fortunate that your mother understood the dangers.” Caden closed the drawer and stood from behind his desk. He walked over to the glass medical instrument cabinet near the brass sculpture of his likeness. “Mr. McGowan’s mother may have had some cause to administer them when he was a boy; to help soothe some reoccurring disturbance, perhaps. They may have been necessary to help him sleep.”
He opened the clear glass doors of the top tier of the cabinet and pulled out a small, blue glass vial and a bottle of a popular cough medicine for adults. He placed the vial in the pocket of his coat with his left hand. Turning, he held the dark brown bottle up in his right. “Is this what Mr. McGowan usually prefers?”
“Yes? You can buy it easily from any druggist shop.”
Caden walked back to his desk and placed the bottle down on the top. He sat casually on the edge of the desk, dangling his leg. “What if I told you that this common brand of cough medicine is almost as pure in its concentration of heroin and morphine as any that can be procured in an opium den?”
“I wouldn’t know what to think. Surely the government regulates this sort of thing. It must be a considerably milder dosage. I’m sure there are other medicinal ingredients that allows for its effect.”
Caden picked up the brown bottle and read the fine print underneath the company’s name on the label. “Heroin or morphine are the only medicinal ingredients, my dear, unless you would include the alcohol that simply speeds their delivery to the blood. It is the same for these other child remedies, I can assure you.”
Gabrielle picked up the other bottles, one after the other, and squinted as she read the labels more deliberately. “You can’t imply Bret’s loathsome behavior can be traced back to his mother giving him medicine when he was a sick child?”
Caden rose from the corner of the desk and stepped back around to sit down in his chair. “I am not here to preach to emotions, Gabrielle, but to appeal to reason. Once the poisoned seed is planted, the vine may spread throughout life. Any prolonged chemical indulgence—be it drink or drug—leads to permanent moral apathy.”
He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “The higher centers of a man’s brain become atrophied, leading to behavior that, although appearing quite normal to the sufferer, is obviously repugnant and self-destructive to any person still in possession of their rational faculties.”
Gabrielle shifted her position in her chair, adverting her eyes from his for a few moments. “Then why not convince him to seek treatment in a special sanatorium that deals with these . . . these sorts of afflictions? I’m sure that if we talked to him together Bret would see reason.”
Caden sighed as if patiently lecturing a newcomer on the finer points of a theory they couldn’t grasp. “No, Gabrielle, unfortunately, it’s not that simple.”
He reached into the right pocket of his jacket, letting it rest there with his fingers on top of its contents. “Typically, the sufferer does not believe he
is
afflicted and resists all attempts by those concerned with his well-being to intervene. Instead of bringing Bret closer, you will end up driving him away, possibly forever.”
Gabrielle sobbed. “That terrible, selfish bastard.” She opened her purse and took out a white handkerchief. “The first time he went away just about ended me, but all of this is worse, much worse.”
Gabrielle’s inability to conceal her devotion filled him with an intense adoration for her character; this, with the obvious social advantages of the Caldwell name, raised her to the throne above all other possible female candidates.
Caden made a nonchalant motion in the air with his right hand. “On the slender chance that we might convince him to seek treatment, our traditional Western therapies and medicines are sorely lacking in this area.”
He opened one of the illustrated medical texts on his desk and turned the book around for Gabrielle to see. “A regimen of ice water showers followed by bouts of bloodletting, bowel purging, vomiting, and sweating treatments can end up killing the patient faster than his affliction.”
Gabrielle closed her eyes and shut the book.
Caden nodded in sympathy for her barely restrained anguish. “I understand what you’re feeling. This is a most hideous thing to witness and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.” He ran his fingers nimbly over the stubble on his jaw then rested his chin in an upturned palm and waited.
Gabrielle would not raise her downcast eyes to meet his, seeming intent instead to look down at the black velvet fabric of her purse clutched between the entwined fingers of each gloved hand.
She briefly touched a white-gloved finger to the corner of her eye. “Every day he seems darker, more distant . . . and now this terrible accusation from Mr. Weems.” She wept again and placed her hand on top of the desk. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s any hope for Bret at all.”