An Irresistible Temptation (35 page)

It was nice to be alone, just the two of
them, after the hullabaloo of the past year. Their courtship had
been a whirlwind at best, for neither could wait to share a bed
every night. And they hadn’t waited. Damn propriety. They’d been
through too much separation to let a little thing like a marriage
license keep them apart.

Still, for their marriage, they’d dutifully
allowed Sophie’s extended family to take over the Trinity Church on
Post and Powell’s streets. Not only were Reed and Charlotte and
Sophie’s mother and sisters in attendance, but also most of the
symphony and, thanks to Henry Hadley’s connections, most of the
notables of San Francisco, as well. It was an uncommonly clear day
with no fog. With Dan as best man and Carling as maid of honor,
Sophie’s sole disappointment was not being able to play her own
wedding march, but Henry Hadley did that for her.

Sophie’s mother insisted on remaining in San
Francisco with the happy couple to help her middle daughter set up
a home—seeing how “utterly unprepared for such a thing” Evelyn
declared Sophie to be. Sophie was made to learn to cook a few
dishes, and beat a rug, but she drew the line at darning socks.

“I’ll buy new socks,” Riley whispered in
Sophie’s ear, before nibbling her ear lobe, as his new
mother-in-law huffed over her uncooperative daughter.

Then Riley’s parents, who’d missed the
wedding because they couldn’t be found in time, showed up in San
Francisco for a post-wedding celebration that seemed to last a
month.

“Such a sweet boy,” Mrs. Dalcourt had
proclaimed, pinching her son’s cheek. Sophie reached behind and
pinched his nether cheek, making him jump.

“That’s Doctor Sweet Boy,” said his father
who’d seen Sophie do it.

Sophie decided her in-laws were odd and
delightful, but she wished them gone after a couple weeks.
Eventually, they left.

“Don’t forget,” Mrs. Dalcourt said, as she
adjusted her hat, “I love babies.”

“So much,” Mr. Dalcourt added, “that she only
had the one.”

“I love
other
people’s babies,” she
amended, and they were still discussing it as they went out the
front door of Sophie and Riley’s new home on Alamo Square.

*****

That night, Riley thought Sophie played
better than ever, but then, he thought that every time he heard her
play. When the final notes died away in the depths of the packed
concert hall and the applause had reached a crescendo and then
faded, and after the musicians had bowed, smiled, and clapped for
their conductor, Sophie came directly into his arms.

He kissed her, fully, in front of all the
musicians who, so used to seeing the adoring couple, continued
around and past them without a second glance.

“Mm, that’s my favorite part of the evening,”
she said, when he let her breathe.

“I think I can do even better,” he whispered
against her ear. She bit her lip and let the anticipation of his
words course through her as her passion for Riley always did,
always would, leaving her tingly and excited. Like hearing an
irresistible melody.

“God, I love you, Mr. Dalcourt.”

“God, I wish I could take you on top of your
grand piano, Mrs. Dalcourt.”

She laughed; she laughed so hard she almost
choked and he had to thump her on the back.

“You two are making a spectacle out of
yourselves, as usual,” Henry said, tossing his cape about his
shoulders. He looked at Sophie, “As your conductor, all I can say
is ‘Carry on.’” He walked away.

“Oh,” Sophie remembered. “We’re going to
Carling’s tonight, yes?”

“You know,” Riley said, tilting his head, “we
might want to put that off until the morning. I’m prescribing a few
hours in bed for you.”

His grin turned wicked, her knees went weak,
and she decided her husband was positively genius.

“Well,” she said, taking hold of his
outstretched hand. “You’re the doctor.”

###

I would greatly appreciate it if you, dear
reader, would take the time to review my book at wherever you
purchased this copy.

Thank you,

Sydney Jane Baily

Dear Reader,

I must confess that I took a few liberties,
time-wise, with creating the San Francisco Symphony. It did not
form officially in the mid-1880s as it does in my story. In
reality, it was not until after the terrible 1906 earthquake that a
group of businessmen decided that a world-class symphony should be
part of the re-built city.

Though there were some local symphonies with
whom Sophie Malloy might have played, including the San Francisco
Symphony Orchestra in 1896, the San Francisco Symphony Society in
1897, and the Philharmonic Orchestra in 1898, none of these were
long-lasting.

The symphony I refer to in this story came to
be in 1911 when Henry Hadley, on December 8, 1911, conducted its
first performance. Hadley is also in this story, along with many
real-life musicians that accompanied him to San Francisco. I also
changed their playbill, having them concentrate, in their opening
series, on one classical composer each night. In truth, Hadley hit
the audience with four big names on opening night: Wagner,
Tchaikovsky, Haydn, and Liszt.

Sherman Clay & Company was a real music
store that opened in 1870. It was founded by Leander Sherman, who
left Boston for San Francisco, just like Sophie. The store might,
indeed, have provided the symphony with its concert grand piano. In
fact, all the pianos mentioned and described were real, and some
still exist, including Sophie’s exquisite Broadwood and Sons grand
that her father bought her.

Cheers and happy reading!

Sydney Jane Baily

An Improper
Situation
(2012)

by Sydney Jane Baily
Chapter One
Spring City, Colorado

Charlotte heard the wagon wheels and the
horse’s hooves from where she sat at her desk and raised her head,
a frown crossing her otherwise clear features.

“Blazes!” she exclaimed. She was not
expecting anyone. Except for Sarah Cuthins, the doctor’s wife,
Charlotte and her neighbors weren’t, well, neighborly enough with
each other for an uninvited visit. And she could tell just by
listening that it wasn’t Sarah’s buggy coming down the road.

She couldn’t see the wagon even if she tried
to look out the window, as books were piled high in front of it.
Books were, in fact, the dominant feature in the study—on history,
modern and ancient languages, classical architecture, mathematics,
even oceanology, entomology, and geology. And in the middle of them
all, Charlotte sat at her large desk, strewn with papers and with a
faded globe perched precariously on one corner.

She lifted her fingers from the keyboard of
her typewriter. The invention itself was over a decade old, but her
machine—the one extravagant purchase she’d made that year—was new.
Anything that took her from it was of great annoyance.

Standing up, she absentmindedly tucked behind
her ear one strand of hair that seemed to shimmer with all the
colors of autumn. Then she reconsidered and twisted the rest of her
waist-length hair up in a loose knot. It wasn’t tidy, but it was
better than going to the door all undone, she thought.

The wagon was obviously stopping at her door,
so she had no choice but to greet its passengers. Lord, she hoped
no one wanted coffee. For that matter, she hoped no one wanted
anything, as the kitchen was as bare of food as she was of
hospitality and time for interruptions.

Charlotte crossed the well-worn yellow and
blue rug, automatically stepping over the small hole in the
floorboard as she strode into the hall. It was cluttered with her
shoes, coat, umbrella, and various knickknacks, though she didn’t
even notice the comfortable mess.

When a sharp knock resounded from the other
side of the door, startlingly loud in the silence, she froze. Then
she took a deep breath.

“Coming.” Charlotte hoped she didn’t sound as
irritated as she felt. No one respected other people’s deadlines!
She yanked open the door and then nearly slammed it shut with
surprise. Instead, she stepped back with a murmured, “Oh, my!”

Before her was a tall, dark-haired man with
the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen, dressed in a
well-fitted suit of the neatest charcoal stripe. However, what
caused her disconcertion was not his devilish good looks alone, but
the two young children standing on either side of him.

The little girl, with two blond braids, was
holding the man’s hand while the little boy, who had hair
remarkably similar in color to Charlotte’s own and who barely came
above the man’s knee, simply clutched the man’s well-tailored pant
leg, causing a severe pucker.

“I understand this is the Sanborn
homestead.”

His voice brought her attention back to him.
She looked up dazedly, her own sparkling green eyes blinking at the
late spring sunlight behind him. Perhaps the whole apparition of
handsome man and small children might just disappear if she willed
it.

“I am Charlotte Sanborn.” Automatically, she
stuck out her right hand to the stranger.

He looked at her hand, his face
surprised.

“The writer?”

Now she looked stunned. “How on earth . . .
?” she began. No one except the few people in Spring City who cared
to find out knew that she was “Charles” Sanborn, the acclaimed
writer.

“Excuse me,” he added, “I thought you would
be older. That is, I’m delighted to meet you.” A smile crossed his
features for the first time, and he took her extended hand in his
free one, and with a firm grasp, shook it.

Charlotte felt a shock of warmth and strength
and realized it had been a long while since she’d touched someone
else’s skin.

“It is an honor and a pleasure,” he
continued. “I’ve read much of your work.” His voice was as warm as
his hand, and she flushed.

Charlotte was used to praise, having been
hailed as a voice of her time for the past few years by the editors
with whom she had contact; she was successful in her own
uncelebrated and quiet way—of course under the guise of her
pseudonym.

However, knowing that this man had sat down
with her work in his hands caused her to feel strangely
exposed.

“Well, thank you,” she said and stopped. She
was waiting. He was waiting. The children were waiting but less
patiently. The little boy tugged on the man’s pant leg.

“Are we goin’ in?” he asked, looking not at
Charlotte but up at the tall man, who gave him a smile that stirred
Charlotte’s sentiment.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured, still
thinking of the man’s genuine smile. “Where are my manners?” The
little girl just stared at her as if she was wondering the very
same thing, and Charlotte quickly moved aside to let them enter.
She felt for all the world as if she had suddenly stepped out of
her own life. A few moments ago, she would never have imagined a
man and two children standing in her entryway.

“I am sorry to barge in on you, Miss
Sanborn,” he began, as his eyes took in the untidiness and the
disrepair in one quick glance, “but once we arrived in Spring City,
I discovered, of course, that there was no telephone system in
place as yet.”

They must be from the east, she concluded. “I
think it will be a while yet before those of us in Colorado have
the benefits of Mr. Bell’s invention.” Having exhausted that topic,
she waited again for him to explain himself.

“We hope you are not too inconvenienced, but
we tried to be here as close to the appointed time as possible,
barring a few mishaps along the way.” This caused both the children
to giggle, apparently having been the cause of some of the
mishaps.

Charlotte frowned. “The appointed time,
sir?”

“The trains were running late along the
Topeka-Santa Fe line; a Pullman sleeper had overturned,” he
stated.

She nodded, finding nothing more to say,
since the entire conversation so far was making no sense to her,
and she usually prided herself on her quick understanding.

After a long moment, he frowned. “Miss
Sanborn, the children are tired. We stopped only briefly in Spring
City to get directions, and I’m sure they’d benefit from a short
nap while we talk about their situation. Then, perhaps, some supper
would be in order.”

“Supper?” she repeated. The situation wasn’t
getting any better. Why would this family come to her house and
demand a place to sleep and eat?

She pressed her hand to the side of her head.
She’d been working steadily for days to meet her editor’s deadline
and she was plum tuckered out. Charlotte was sure that was the
reason none of this was coming clear to her.

“Miss Sanborn, is everything all right?” Even
this tall, handsome stranger seemed a bit agitated now. His dark
eyebrows formed the oddest pattern of straight and wavy lines as he
frowned.

“Everything is just peart,” she began,
“except I must acknowledge the corn. I haven’t the slightest idea
who you are.” She felt better for confessing that.

It was his turn to flush. “But how is that
possible? I sent the letter myself.”

“The letter?” At least this wasn’t a random
visit by lunatics wanting food, she thought. Perhaps soon they
would get to the bottom of this and she could return to her
work.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Are you telling me that
you never received correspondence from the offices of Malloy and
Associates, posted about a month and a half past?”

“Malloy?” The name sounded familiar, but she
couldn’t place it.

“Well, I’ve been awfully busy, Mr. . . .
ah—”