Crooked Hearts (2 page)

“Yes, indeed. I’m on the last leg of the trip—I’m
not
sorry to say, delightful though it’s been—and starting the day after tomorrow, San Francisco will host the final display.”

“It must be a very
small
exhibit.”

“Select,” he corrected dryly. “And if I may say so, very, very special.”

“I imagine the pieces must be quite valuable,” Sister Augustine mused.

“Priceless. Beyond price.”

She touched a thoughtful finger to her chin. “What sort of pieces are they?” she asked, and Mr. Sweeney began to talk about Ming funerary sculpture and Tang jade, screen paintings and water colors and enameled ceramics. “How fascinating,” she exclaimed when he finally wound down. “Would you happen to have a catalog?”

“In my trunk, yes. I’ll dig one out for you when we stop for the night, shall I?”

“That’s very kind of you.” She happened to glance over at Mr. Cordoba just then. He had a thoughtful finger on his chin, too.

Talk grew more general. The unconscious cowboy snored himself awake and glared around at them blearily. A few minutes later the coach rocked to a stop, and they heard the driver jump down into the road.

“Sorry, folks,” he called up, “but there’s going to be a little delay.”

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Willis?” Sweeney asked, opening his door.

“Half a split pine tree up ahead, blocking the road. Looks like lightning hit it. Can’t go around, on account of a gully on one side and rocks on the other.” He pushed his hat back to scratch his head. “It ain’t a big pine, I think two-three of us could heft it outa the way pretty easy.”

“I’d be glad to assist,” the curator offered immediately. Sister Augustine eyed his pudgy frame with misgivings; something about him, maybe his short arms, reminded her of a frog.

Everybody looked at the cowboy. His hangover was palpable, drifting through the air of the hot, motionless coach like a low-lying fog. At the end of a long minute, Mr. Cordoba said gravely, “I’d be happy to lend any assistance I could, but I’m afraid I might be more of a hindrance than a help.” More silence. “Still, if you think—”

The cowboy cut him off with a word that started out as “Shhhhh,” and tapered off to bitter muttering. “Come on,” he snarled, and stepped gingerly out of the coach.

“Won’t be a minute,” chirped Mr. Sweeney, with more confidence than Sister Augustine thought the circumstances warranted, and jumped out after him.

Alone with Mr. Cordoba, she took the opportunity to unbutton the front of her heavy linen habit, inside of which she was sweating like a stevedore, and fan herself between her breasts. It was impossible not to stare at him while she did so, even though she could see nothing in his bright blue spectacles except her own black-robed, pale-faced reflection. She liked his scholar’s forehead and his long beak of a nose, his romantic mouth. She was dying to know what color his eyes were. Brown, probably, because his hair was nearly black. A Spanish father and an English mother, he’d said. And all those acres of ranchero down in Monterey. The very thought caused even more honest Christian charity to flower in Sister Augustine’s bosom.

“Warm day,” he mentioned.

“It certainly is,” she agreed, fanning away.

He turned his head, showing her his hawkish profile, and inhaled a deep breath. “Poppies?”

She looked out the window, following his blind gaze. “Yes, there’s a bank of them just beyond a grove of oak trees, about thirty feet away.”

His mouth curved in a wistful smile. She guessed that behind the glasses his eyes were closed, and that he was seeing the bright flowers in his memory. She tried to think of something consoling to say, but nothing came to mind. How
awful
to be blind. If she couldn’t see, and someone told her it was God’s will, she’d probably curse them.

“I’d like to make a donation to your orphans’ hospital, Sister. A sizable one.”

“God bless you, Mr. Cordoba,” she intoned sedately. With a silent whoop, she lifted her arms and shook both fists in the air like a victorious prizefighter.

He coughed behind his hand. “Do you have a card, a pledge form or something I could fill out?”

“I think I do. I believe I could find one.” She opened her pocketbook and thumbed through the pledge cards in her stack. She had about eighty left.

“Perhaps you could give one to me when we stop for the night.”

“Certainly.”

“I might have to ask you to assist me, Sister, in filling in the amount and so forth.”

Holy Mother of God. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and forced her voice down a whole octave from where it wanted to be. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Cordoba.”

When the euphoria abated, she remembered that the gun was still chafing her thigh. She cocked her head out the window to make sure the coast was clear. Moving slowly to lessen the sound of rustling cloth, she hitched up her bulky skirts and pulled up the right leg of her drawers. The derringer had slid to the back of her garter; she shifted it to the side where it belonged, wishing she could peel off her thick, hot, ugly black stockings. There was a reddening, gun barrel-shaped indentation on the back of her thigh that hurt; she massaged it with both hands, smiling happily at Mr. Cordoba all the while.

Gravel crunched outside. She barely got her habit down and her face in order before Sweeney and the cowboy pulled open the doors on either side of the coach and climbed in. The driver cracked his whip, and they were off.

She liked the Saratoga Hotel. It was small, clean, and a cut above what she was used to lately. Everybody let her register first, out of respect for her station. She was glad, because all she could think about was getting naked, cool, and clean, in that order. Even so, she made herself hang back at the clerk’s desk after she signed in, pretending to admire a photograph of the proprietor’s children, while she waited to hear the clerk tell Mr. Sweeney his room number. Seventeen. About four doors down from hers, then. How convenient.

Her small second-floor room had all the basics, plus unstained wallpaper and a clean rug that reached to all four walls. She threw her suitcase on the wide bed, not bothering to unpack first. “God is great, God is good,” she muttered as she shucked off habit and veil, rosary and crucifix, shoes, stockings, chemise and drawers. At least nuns didn’t wear corsets, praise the Lord and pass the butter. She’d have a real bath later, in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, but for now the pitcher and basin on the washstand would be heavenly.

She shook her hair down, letting it fall over her shoulders, because it didn’t matter if it got wet—she’d just stuff it all up again in the headpiece when she got dressed for dinner. She pressed the cool, dripping towel to her face and neck, letting water run over her shoulders and down her breasts in rivulets. “Yes, Lord. Glory be and hallelujah.” She caught her eye in the mirror over the washstand. “No offense,” she muttered superstitiously, then smiled. How could God take offense at that face?
An angel,
Henry called her.
They’ll turn their pockets inside out for that face.

A dull scraping noise outside in the hall made her pause, thoughtfully rubbing the wet wash cloth under one arm. The sound was coming closer, starting and stopping, scraping and tapping. Outside the door now. While she was trying to remember if she’d locked it, the handle turned and the door swung wide open.

“Mr. Cordoba!” She yelped it, but somehow managed not to scream.

“Oh, I say—I do beg your pardon. Is that you, Sister?” Urbane, unperturbed, he stood in the doorway, gently sweeping a three-foot arc of air in front of him with his cane. “I could’ve sworn I counted the doors correctly. The clerk said the third on the right, I thought, but perhaps I missed one. I wonder—would you mind helping me?”

She felt like Eve immediately after the Fall, huddled in a frantic crouch, one forearm and one spread palm inadequately covering the vital places. “I, um, I’m not quite dressed.”

Finally he began to look embarrassed. Instead of leaving, though he turned around and closed the gaping door with his foot—his arms were burdened with two bulky suitcases as well as his cane. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said again with his wonderful English accent. “This must be frightfully awkward for you.”

She made an ambiguous whimpering noise.

“But of course, you must know—there’s no need for you to be embarrassed.” He said this with such wistfulness, such sad, terrible bravery, that Sister Augustine’s heart twisted.

And she saw his point. Feeling extremely foolish, she let her hands fall and stood up straight. “You’re quite right,” she agreed, trying to sound brisk. “I wasn’t thinking.” She stopped just short of apologizing for being insensitive.

He couldn’t see her, she knew that—but it was a disconcerting feeling all the same, standing buck naked in front of a strange man. For once she felt glad of his opaque glasses, because looking into his eyes right now, blind or not, would’ve unnerved her completely. She took a few mincing steps toward the bed. “Excuse me …”

“Oh. Beg pardon.” He backed out of the way, and she passed within a foot of him, as goose bumps erupted everywhere.

“Didn’t they call a porter for you?” she said over her shoulder, rooting around in her clothes for her dressing gown.

“I told them I could manage on my own. Sometimes …” He trailed off ruefully.

Where the hell was her damn robe? “Sometimes?” she prompted, giving up and emptying everything out on the bed.

“Sometimes I’m afraid I let my pride get in the way of my good judgment,” he confessed with quiet dignity.

She made a half turn toward him as she struggled into her pink chenille dressing gown. “Humility is a virtue,” she said primly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say so, but I’ve always thought it one of the lesser ones.”

He had a very rakish smile for a scholar. “It’s kind of you to say so, Sister. Especially under the circumstances.”

She yanked the belt tight at her waist and faced him. “Here, let me take one of those.” He gave her his smaller bag, which he’d wedged under his right arm. “What room did the clerk say?”

“Fourteen.” They moved out into the hall. She started to take his elbow, but he said, “This way is a little easier for me,” shrugging off her hand and instead taking hold of her upper arm in a firm clasp.

“Oh, I see.” They negotiated the narrow hall without incident, he moving along smoothly half a step behind her. “Here we are. Fourteen’s two up from mine; you miscounted, that’s all.”

“I must apologize again.”

“Not at all. Have you got the key? Here, let me help—”

“You’re very kind, but I prefer to do it myself.”

The slight edge to his voice made her stand back and watch in helpless sympathy while he set his suitcase on the floor, hooked his cane over his left arm, fumbled the room key out of his pocket and into the lock, and finally got the door open.

His room was identical to hers, she saw at a glance. “I’m putting your bag on this chair, is that all right?” He nodded, but didn’t move from the doorway. She suspected he was waiting for her to leave, so he could grope his way around without a witness.

She went to him, took his hand, and squeezed it around her elbow again. “From here, the bed is straight ahead and one”—she gave his arm a gentle tug to get him going—”two, three, four—four and a half steps away. This is a little bedside table.” She pressed his palm down on the wooden top. “There’s an oil lamp right … here. Although”—she felt her face getting warm—”I guess you probably won’t be needing it. Then, if you turn around in a half-circle and walk along the side of the bed—one, two, three, four, five,
stop
—this is the bureau.”

They walked off the steps to the window, the wardrobe, and the wash stand, and then she suggested they go out into the hall and locate the bathroom.

“I’ll find that on my own, thanks.”

“I don’t mind, really, and while we’re—”

“Sister,” he said in his cello voice. “You’re very kind; you’re an angel of mercy. But I’m aware that you’re wearing a rather thin garment, a dressing gown of some sort, I suppose. If we were observed, it might be … a bit awkward for you.”

With an odd but distinct feeling of regret, she released Mr. Cordoba’s arm and stepped away. “Of course. Thank you, I didn’t think of that.” She wandered toward the door. “I’ll leave you, then, if you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Quite.”

“Good. Well, then.” She opened the door.

“Sister?”

“Yes?”

“I wonder—would it be against convent rules for you to join me for dinner this evening?”

She felt her smile blossoming into a big, wide grin. After a thoughtful pause, she said slowly, “Noo-o-o, I can’t think of any rule that would break. Actually, we’re quite a forward-thinking order, Mr. Cordoba.”

She’d forgotten that he had a devastating grin of his own. “I’m delighted to hear that about the Blessed Sisters of Misery.”

“Hope,” she corrected gently.

“Hope. Shall I knock on your door in about an hour, then?”

“I look forward to it.”

He made her a low, formal bow, which she found utterly charming, and she danced out of his room on silent bare feet.

“It happened exactly thirteen months ago. I was on a ship sailing from Liverpool to San Francisco. I’d finally finished my studies, and I was on my way home. My wedding was three weeks away.”

“Your wedding?” She laid her fork down and reached for her wineglass. Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, 1879, Mr. Cordoba had told her. The dining room at the Saratoga served only domestic Chablis; when he’d heard that, he’d gone back to his room and gotten a bottle of his own. He was a connoisseur.

“Isabella and I had been engaged for four years. She was waiting for me.”

“What happened?” she asked when he paused.

“A fire broke out below decks on the last night. Everyone panicked. I tried to help, first with putting out the fire, then leading frightened passengers out of their smoky cabins to safety. It went on for hours. I shouldn’t have done it—it was foolhardy, not brave—but I went back down for one last try, even though I knew I was exhausted. I remember hearing a terrible cracking sound over my head. And then …” He grimaced, and passed a hand across his brow. “A burning beam split, fell, and struck me on the back of the head.”