Rescuing the Heiress (9 page)

Clenching his jaw, he entered the rear of the fire station and noticed that the horses were still snorting, shuffling and acting decidedly uneasy. When he spotted O'Neill trying to comfort them he joined him.

“What's wrong with all these animals tonight?” Michael asked.

“Beats me. I thought maybe you'd given them an extra ration of grain.”

“Not me. Must be some other reason. A lot of the horses out on the streets are acting the same way.”

His fellow fireman began to scowl. “That doesn't sound good. You know what usually happens when they get this upset.”

“Sure.” Michael shrugged off the concern. “Don't worry though. The city may shake a little from time to time but it never amounts to much. Any serious trouble we were going to have has already happened years ago.” He eyed the steam pipes leading up from the boiler in the basement that they kept heated in preparation for charging the mobile pumpers with hot water. “It's not like it was in the old days before the fire brigades formed. We're ready for anything now.”

O'Neill nodded. “Aye. That we are. I'll just feel better about it when these horses tell me it's safe again.”

Chuckling, Michael agreed. “Me, too. In the meantime, how's your hangover? Do you want to take the watch tonight or shall I?”

“Since you let me nap away me big head all afternoon,
I think you should have the whole night to sleep, if you want,” O'Neill said with a wry grin. “Callahan and I can listen for any alarms and wake you if we need you.”

Michael figured he wouldn't sleep a wink because of his constant thoughts of Tess but he nevertheless accepted the offer of an entire night off. His quarters were upstairs in the station, along with those of many of the other firemen, so he wasn't far away if he was needed.

He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “All right. It's a bargain. I'm such a light sleeper I usually hear the alarm going off anyway.”

“Why do you think I drink?” O'Neill asked with a grin. “Can't hardly sleep without a little medicine to calm the old nerves.”

“I wish we could give some to these poor nags,” Michael said with a snort of derision. “If they don't settle down pretty soon they'll be too worn-out to pull the engines.”

“I know. I'll stick with 'em for a bit. Might even make me a pallet out here so I can tell if they get worse.”

“You sure you don't want company?”

“Naw. I owe you. Besides, horses don't care if there's a bit of the grog on a man's breath.”

“You haven't been drinking again, have you?”

“No. Not yet,” O'Neill said. “But I may be sorely tempted by the time this night is over, and that's a fact.”

“Well, if you do hit the bottle don't tell me about it,” Michael warned, “or I'll have to report you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That's why you'd make a better captain than I ever would. Have ye heard anything more about your promotion?”

“No.” He felt a twinge of foreboding. If he declared his fondness for Tess Clark and her father was as upset about it as Michael expected him to be, he could kiss any thoughts of rising in the fire department's ranks goodbye.

That, however, was not the basic reason why he intended to disabuse her of any notions that they belonged together. The insufficiency was his and his alone. He could never hope to attain the high station in life to which Tess belonged. And he would never presume to ask her to lower herself to his class among the more common folk. She deserved better.

“But not a man like that odious Edgerton,” he muttered to himself.

Climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the common bunk area on the second story, Michael kept shaking his head in disgust. There was no way a man like him could hope to influence Gerald Clark one way or the other, so why concern himself with the possible choice of suitors for Tess?

Troubled as well as frustrated, Michael stripped off his uniform coat and boots and threw himself onto his narrow cot without bothering to finish undressing or turning down the covers. He laid his arm over his eyes to try to blot out the image of Tess being courted by anyone but him.

On either side of his bed, sleeping firemen snored
loudly. The racket wasn't enough to distract Michael's thoughts or keep him from recalling every nuance of Tess's image and every inflection of her voice when she'd begged for a meeting.

Yes,
Michael concluded sadly,
I'll meet her. And I'll tell her that no matter how either of us may feel, there is absolutely no chance we can ever find mutual happiness.

In his heart of hearts he knew that was true. But deeper, in the part of him that he suspected was his soul, he was still able to visualize putting his arms around Tess and seeing her gaze up at him with the same tenderness she'd displayed outside the opera house that very evening.

She was a vision of pure loveliness coupled with an intelligence and wit equal to any man he'd ever met, himself included. And her eyes! When she'd looked at him with such intensity, such affection, he'd had to struggle to keep from kissing her in spite of the hundreds of witnesses milling around.

Nurturing that image and letting his sleeve blot up the sparse moisture that kept gathering in his eyes, Michael finally dozed off.

April 18, 5:13 a.m.

T
ess was dreaming. She was wearing her emerald-green gown again and being escorted to the opera by a tall, handsome, well-dressed man who could only be Michael Mahoney. Everyone was deliriously happy, especially her. Even Papa was smiling and holding out his hand as if accepting her choice of a beau.

Then, suddenly, the whole opera house began to quiver. When Tess tried to scream, she was mute.

Awakening abruptly, she was confused. She blinked rapidly to help clear her head and try to focus.

This was no dream. It was a true nightmare. The room was actually rocking and there was a loud, ominous rumble echoing throughout the house, as if the very walls and floors were groaning in agony.

Tess shouted, “Annie,” at the top of her lungs before she remembered that she had sent the girl into the city to visit her mother, Rose, the evening before.

Fisting the sheets, Tess held on to her bedding and peered through the narrow openings between the drapes at her windows. Night was still upon them, although a waning moon illuminated the swaying trees in the formal garden and there was a glow to the east above Mount Diablo. Dawn was very near.

The ground continued to shift. It was less of a jerking motion now and more like riding the waves at sea.

Scooting to the edge of her mattress, Tess grasped the carved mahogany bedpost and hung on for dear life. The great, stone house on Nob Hill was built on firmer ground than much of San Francisco was but it still felt as if it was about to be shaken apart.

“Father!” she shouted above the roar and creaking. “Father. Are you all right?”

Gerald Clark's gruff “Yes” gave her relief in spite of its harshness. “Stay where you are,” he ordered.

Tess could tell by the changing direction of his voice that he was not taking his own advice. And if he could move about, so could she.

Swinging her bare feet to the floor, she continued to cling to the bedpost, hoping to keep her balance. She reached one hand for a robe she'd left lying on a nearby fainting couch and lurched toward the door as she slipped her arms into the robe's belled sleeves.

Her left shoulder slammed into the doorjamb. Hitting that frame and leaning against it was the only thing that kept her on her feet.

After pausing to tie the sash of the pale silk dressing gown, she made her way awkwardly to the spiral
staircase that lead to the main floor and grabbed the top railing with both hands. A flurry of activity was taking place below.

“Father!”

“I told you to stay in your room.”

Someone had lit a few of the old gas lamps to illuminate the foyer and she could see Gerald's deep scowl in shadow as he glared up at her. His thick gray brows were knit, his grimace clearly visible.

“I'm safer down there with you,” Tess argued.

“Not if this ceiling caves in.”

She could see the continuing sway of the crystal chandelier above the entry hall. The heavy, ornate fixture seemed securely anchored to its carved medallion, yet there was no way to predict whether or not it was going to stay that way.

“I think the shaking is almost over,” Tess said, starting to inch her way down the stairs while keeping a tight hold on the banister. “It's not nearly as bad as it was when I awoke.”

“That doesn't mean the first shock is all there will be,” her father insisted. “If you must be up and about, I suggest you dress properly. And tell Annie to get down to the kitchen and help Mary prepare extra meals. We may have to feed refugees.”

That notion chilled Tess to the bone. Refugees? In her home? Surely the destruction of the city could not be that extensive. Plenty of previous quakes had damaged buildings here and there and had started a few fires which were quickly extinguished. That kind of repeated
event, though troublesome, was easy for a city the size of San Francisco to handle, especially given the marvelously efficient fire brigades that had been organized, particularly after the mid to late 1800s.

Her breath caught. Fires and destruction meant danger for Michael! Her heart raced at the mere notion. She wheeled and started back to her room, keeping a steadying palm pressed to the hallway walls for support as she went.

Although she could dress without Annie, the usual elaborate upsweep of her hair would have to wait. Under these horrible circumstances, such trivialities hardly mattered.

“Dear Lord, watch over the firemen and all the others who are trying to help,” Tess prayed, adding a silent, special word for dear Michael.

Continuing to brace herself as a different, more circular manner of shaking commenced, she staggered back to the window in her room and clung to the edges of the heavy drapes as she threw them open.

What she beheld made her tremble nearly as badly as the earthquake. Multiple small fires were already scattered across the panorama between her home and the shiny, copper dome of the new city hall. Since there was more than one blaze, she assumed the fire department's resources would be sorely taxed.

Once again the movement of the ground abated, although for how long only God knew. Grabbing the first ensemble she saw in her armoire, Tess threw on her clothing. She was buttoning the jacket to her favorite
afternoon ensemble and smoothing its gray, gored skirt when she once again looked down at the city.

“Praise the Lord, some of the fires are already out,” she whispered, immensely relieved. Everything was going to be all right. And as soon as Annie arrived home from her mother's, they'd both lend a hand in the kitchen, just in case Father happened to be right about refugees.

It was not beneath Tess to volunteer to do housework. She was far from the helpless female her father assumed her to be and she didn't mind proving it, especially lately. Though Mama had been frail all her life, her only daughter was a strong woman just like Maud Younger and the other suffragettes she admired so.

Someday Father would have to admit that he had raised a child who was more like himself than he'd ever imagined, Tess mused. And when that happened, she was going to be tickled pink.

 

The first inkling Michael had that something was very wrong was the rocking of his narrow, metal-frame cot. He'd been dreaming of being aboard a ship and had thought at first that the movement was part of that dream.

Then he opened his eyes and saw the truth painted in the dim glow of sunrise. He sat bolt upright, staring in wide-eyed disbelief.

The lanternlike lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling was swinging as if a giant hand were pushing it to and fro. He heard glass falling, windows cracking.
Tiny pieces of white-painted plaster began to rain down on him and the other firemen.

He instinctively raised his arms for protection, shouting, “Look out, boys. Take cover!”

A distant roar filled his ears, as if a hundred hissing, chugging steam locomotives were racing to converge in that very room. The sound built until it was deafening, and as it increased so did the strength, lift and drop of the tremors.

The beds began to lurch like bucking horses. Empty ones bounced higher than the others as the floor heaved, then subsided, only to do it again and again. Michael's cot inched all the way across the room before it hit an interior wall and stopped traveling.

“Dear God, help us,” he shouted, noticing that many of the others were also calling out to the Almighty. And well they should. This was nothing like the other quakes he'd experienced. This one was massive. Catastrophic beyond description.

He'd just begun to think the worst was over when the movement altered and changed course, causing even worse damage. Bricks began to shake loose and fall from the outer walls into the street below.

Outside, shrill cries of injured and dying animals rose to join the cacophony of human terror. Grown men and women could be heard shrieking like terrified children.

The ground continued to tremble. The entire fire house swayed and shuddered. The nearest window popped out
of its frame and disappeared in a hail of mortar, stone and brick.

Michael attempted to stand. Instead, he hit the floor on all fours. Crawling along the buckling boards, he braced his back against a wall and wriggled into his boots as best he could from a horizontal position.

Time seemed to be standing still, yet he knew several minutes must have passed since the initial shock had awakened him. This was no normal quake. This was
big
. And their problems wouldn't be over just because the trembling eventually stopped. If it ever did!

His already racing heart leaped into his throat and he breathed a name that made his gut clench. “Tess.”

There wasn't a thing he could do for her—or for anyone else—until he had learned the worst and seen if he was needed on the job immediately. If he was to be held in reserve for later assignment, as he hoped he would be, the first thing he was going to do was head for the Clark estate and check on the two most important women in his life.

He suddenly remembered the telephone his mother had used to call him. As soon as he could, he'd ring the Clarks' house. He had to know for sure that she and Tess were all right.

“Father,” he prayed as he staggered to his feet and lurched toward the door, hoping against hope that the stairs would still support his weight, “please look after them. Both of them.”

Michael was through arguing with himself. Miss Tess
Clark was a vitally important part of his life. She always would be, whether he ever chose to admit it to her, or not.

 

Tess held tight to the banister, worried about another aftershock, as she made her way to the staircase and started down for the second time that morning. Father and the other male servants were no longer gathered below so she paused there to look for damage. Other than a few spidery cracks in the walls, everything looked secure.

A rising sun was peeking over the tops of the trees and beginning to brightly illuminate the east windows, making the need for artificial light unnecessary. That was good. Apparently, there was no electricity to power the chandeliers or Father would not have bothered to light the gas wall sconces.

While Tess watched, one of the closest flames fluttered as if starved for fuel. Then, the next in line began to do the same, a clear sign of danger.

Working her way cautiously from room to room, she checked to be certain that each valve was tightly closed and each switch for the electric lights was also turned off. Their house seemed to have weathered the earthquake without too much destruction but that didn't mean that the gas mains and electric lines from the city below had not suffered plenty of damage.

According to her father and his outspoken friends including Mayor Schmitz, the land under the wharves and Chinatown and even much of the downtown business
district, was terribly unstable when shaken. That explained why the areas nearest the bay were always affected the most when the ground shifted.

“It must be dreadful this morning,” Tess muttered to herself as she worked her way through the house, carefully skirting shattered remains of porcelain bric-a-brac and imported glassware that had once been so dear to her mother.

Keepsakes no longer held the importance they had even yesterday, Tess realized. Although the loss of such lovely trinkets saddened her, it was the other citizens whose welfare was uppermost in her mind.

Over and over she prayed, “Dear Lord, please, please help the poor people in the lowlands.”

When she reached the kitchen she saw Mary peering with concern at the tall, blackened stove pipe that had been the outlet for smoke from the wood cookstove before it had been replaced by a more modern, gas model.

“Are you all right?” Tess asked, slightly surprised to note a tremulous quality to her voice.

Mary gasped, whirled and rushed to her, enfolding her in a mutual embrace of support and commiseration. “Yes. Are you?” She sniffled.

“Yes,” Tess answered. “That was terrible. I thought it was never going to end.”

“Aye.” The older woman nodded and stepped back, looking chagrined. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hugged you like that. I just…”

“Nonsense. We both needed it. There's nothing like
a disaster to make everyone equal.” She swiped at a stray tear sliding down her cheek. “Is everything still in working order? I saw you looking up at the flue.”

“Just giving thanks that Mister Gerald installed gas for cooking, even if it was hard for me to get used to,” Mary said. “That pipe shook loose. You can see the soot on the wall. I suspect we'd best not use any of the chimneys till they're checked for damage.”

Tess had not thought of that kind of problem. “You're right. How clever of you.”

“Just repeatin' what Michael always says,” Mary explained. “He's more worried about what might cause fires than he is about earthquakes, at least he used to be. After this mornin', who knows?” She sank heavily into one of the kitchen chairs and blinked back tears of her own. “I'm fair troubled about him.”

“So am I,” Tess said without embarrassment. At a time like this she saw little reason to hide her true feelings. Joining Mary, she reached for the cook's hands and clasped them tightly atop the table. “I saw him last night, at the opera.”

“My Michael? He was there? How? Why?”

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me,” Tess said. “Has he confided in you?”

“About what?”

Here was the moment of truth, the instant when she could have made excuses and kept her opinion to herself, as before. This time she chose not to. “About how he might feel regarding me.”

“No.” The older woman's eyes widened. “Of course not. Why would he be tellin' me anything about you?”

“Because we have developed strong feelings for each other,” Tess said. “Oh, he might deny it but I know better. I saw it in the way he looked at me last night.”

Mary was shaking her head. “You were beautiful, all dressed up formal-like. Any young man would have looked on you with admiration.”