Frail Blood (18 page)

A fierce protectiveness for her uncle surged through Emma. "If
there's something about Uncle Stephen I need to know – "

"Drop it, Emma!" Her father's command barked so
loudly Emma retreated a step into the foyer. She'd never seen him so coldly
angry, so deadly ferocious. His lips thinned over his teeth like a predator.

Then the façade suddenly fell away and Emma glimpsed the
tired old man behind the dictator. She almost felt pity for him as he strode by
her to where Sarah stood quietly, extending his hat and overcoat.

"Mother?"

Mary Knight shook her head as if she couldn't or wouldn't
answer. They heard the loud smack of the entry door slamming shut.

Emma clasped her mother's forearms and gave her a small
shake. "What's going on? What about Stephen?"

Her mother's face turned an ugly purple hue, her features
distorted as she spat out her answer. "For a smart girl, you're incredibly
dim, Emma," she said with a vicious tug of her arm. "Stephen likes
men.
Men!" Her voice rose shrilly. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

"What?"

"Stephen likes to screw young men. And Charles Fulton
will make that information public." Spittle formed at the edges of her
mother's lips and her snarl sounded like a rabid dog. "Are you satisfied
now?" she hissed.

Long after her mother and father made their abrupt departure
with the startling news about the younger Knight sibling, Emma sat at her
dresser, staring at herself in the mirror. Of course, shocking as the news was,
it didn't change her affection for her uncle. She knew nothing at all about the
physical relations of men who had such ... proclivities, but she trusted and
loved her uncle far more than her own parents.

She mulled the issue over and over as she lay tossing in her
bed an hour later. It appeared that no one trusted her. Stephen. Malachi. Alma.
They'd all kept secrets from her and by doing so demonstrated their lack of
confidence in her.

Feeling frustrated that she couldn't think of anything to
directly help Alma, she rose and escaped to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk.
Perhaps, if she couldn't sufficiently aid Alma's case, Emma might better
understand the girl on trial for her life.

Malachi had said Emma ought to go to the river, to see how
those other women lived. How Alma had been reared. Where she'd grown up, where
her mother had scraped to keep body and soul together for herself and her small
daughter. Earlier today before Malachi had returned, the girl had finally
spoken of her mother who, Emma gathered, occupied a shanty on the river.

She jumped up from bed and rummaged for clothing, a sudden
determination in her movements. Nothing too fine or obvious. Finding the right
garments, she tossed on her clothes. The house was silent as she made her way
downstairs. Empty, for Sarah and Ralston had long ago retired to their own
cottage.

Emma saddled up Old Stripling and started toward town. At
this hour of night, all the lights were dimmed and few people were about. She
opened up
The Gazette
office and used the recently installed candlestick
telephone device to summon a hansom cab.

She'd go to the Sacramento docks to see for herself what
surroundings had shaped the woman who'd murdered her lover.

Chapter 19

“Screw your courage to the sticking place.” –
Macbeth

Emma peered at the scrap of paper in her hand and then
glanced up at the dilapidated wooden structure in front of her. Number Six
Firehouse Alley, a narrow, rutted path behind a row of commercial businesses
that ran parallel to the Sacramento River. Signs of poverty and decay clung to
the structure and its outbuildings like mold.

The stench of outdoor privies and the smell of liquor and
stale bodies assaulted her nostrils. She clapped a handkerchief over her mouth
and nose. Taking a deep breath, she marched determinedly up several broken
steps to a front door partially unhinged. The sounds of grunting and flesh
slapping against flesh emanated from behind the door.

Anger propelled her forward. That Alma was reared in such
surroundings horrified her. That such conditions existed a mere mile from the
state capitol building appalled her. That she, Emma, had grown up a few miles
north of here, swaddled in velvet and taffeta from the moment of her birth,
wrenched her with remorse.

She rapped sharply and paused a moment for a response before
pounding her fist against the faded wood. No one answered her banging, but the
noises of copulation ceased.

She raised her fist to batter the door again when at last it
jerked open and a half-clad woman stood in the frame, her yellow hair jutting
from her head like straw from a bale of hay. Her large bosom heaved with
exertion and her chemise dipped low to reveal one large brown nipple.

"Wacha want, hon? I gotta customer here."

The woman's fleshy face was scarlet with rouge and rough
with bruising, her feet were bare beneath drawers, and her high forehead was
lined with more years than her likely age. Emma realized this creature was Alma's
mother. The similarity of their features was unmistakable.

"Mrs. Bentley?"

The woman peered at her as though trying for recognition.
"What's it to you, sister?"

"I – I ..." Emma's tongue was thick in her mouth,
her brain numb in her head.

The heavily-painted dark eyes raked over Emma's figure in a
calculating manner. "If you're lookin' for work, honey, see Johnny over at
the tavern." She jerked her head in a direction behind her. "You look
a little scrawny to me, but some of these fellas like 'em without much meat on
their bones."

She laughed and turned away, slamming the door shut behind
her. Emma stared at the spot where the woman had stood until she heard the
resumption of the sounds that had greeted her earlier. This time loud groans
and louder cries of passion accompanied the wet, sucking noise of their
coupling.

Her cheeks aflame, her heart pounding with chagrin, she
turned and hastily made her way down the dark alley to Waterfront Street where
she'd asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for her. When she arrived at
the appointed place, however, both the man and his cab were gone.

Damn.

She glanced around, noticing for the first time the
unlighted streets and gloomy brick store fronts, dark at this hour of the night.
The only sounds of life rose from the tavern on the corner of Waterfront Street,
the establishment, she supposed, where she might obtain a job from the man
named Johnny.

She shuddered as the chill from the river whipped up with
the advancing wind, a light mist fogging the streets. As she watched, a raucous
group of men emerged from the tavern and ambled down the boardwalk, their boots
ringing hollowly against the wooden slats. From the way they staggered and
rabbled with one another, Emma knew they'd been drinking heavily.

She turned and made her way back down the narrow alley, her
footsteps quick and hurried. Instinct propelled her. Perhaps the men were
harmless, but she didn't care to find out for sure. At the far end of the
alley, she paused and looked around.

Where could she go? Would Mrs. Bentley admit her? Not likely
since the woman was far too occupied with her paying customer.

When she reached the path's end, she turned left on the next
street. Suddenly one of the men she'd observed coming from the tavern stepped
in front of her, blocking her way.

His hat was low on his forehead, hiding his face, but she
could inhale the strong odor of spirits on his breath. Behind him stood one of
his companions, a barrel-chested man of dark complexion whose passive
expression shot a warning up her spine.

They'd circled around the buildings to cut her off!

She scuttled back the other way only to see two more of them
entering the alley from that end.

She was trapped!

#

Malachi knew from the look on Alma's face that she didn't
realize where Emma had gone.

"Damn it, Alma, why?"

"She asked me," Alma said, her voice meek. "She
wanted to know where I come from. You know, where my mam raised me."

"And your mother is a prostitute, isn't that right?"

The girl's face turned the color of a ripe tomato. "I
didn't mean no harm, Mr. Rivers." Tears sprang to her eyes and trickled in
dusty streams down her thin cheeks. "I didn't think she'd go there. Don't
she know how dangerous that place is at night?"

"Unfortunately, our foolish Miss Knight doesn't know
the meaning of
danger."

"Huh?"

That a woman should deliberately put herself in harm's way
was apparently anathema to Alma. She'd been reared on the waterfront, bumped
shoulders with all kinds of ruffians, but even Alma knew when to retreat into
the relative safety of the indoors when night fell.

"Sometimes very bright women are very silly, Alma,"
he explained.

"Are you going after her, Mr. Rivers?"

Malachi stared at Alma's pinched features. "Hmm, I
suppose I shall have to rescue her."

By his reckoning he was some thirty minutes or so behind
Emma. He rode Bathsheba, the gray Arabian he purchased several months ago. He
didn't like riding the mare so hard, but with every mile, he grew more
concerned that Emma would come to harm wandering the streets where the influx
of prospectors created a bawdy, rough group of men in Sacramento.

When he arrived near the wharf, he hitched Bathsheba to a
post outside a brick-fronted building and trod carefully over a cobble-stoned
road until he arrived at the east end of the destination Alma had given him. The
area was shrouded in darkness, but he detected noises coming from several
taverns and brothels on Front Street. He paused to separate those distant
sounds from ones nearer to the address he sought.

Suddenly a scream pierced the dark night.

#

Emma remembered the lessons she'd learned while attending women's
advocacy groups at Wellesley. She quickly jerked off one of her boots and held
it up like a weapon. She regretted not carrying a knitting needle in her
handbag as advised by her teachers, but the heel of her boot was sturdy and
thick and the best she could do at the moment.

The first man lurched toward her and she slammed the boot
heel against his temple. "Oww, you stupid cow," he screeched, a thin
trickle of blood filtering through his fingers.

His friends laughed drunkenly from the opposite end of the
alley. "Aye, she's a feisty one, Mikey-boy, likely she can handle all o'
us."

Emma swept the shoe back and forth between the two men
approaching her from the Main Street end of the alley and glanced back at the
two behind her, coming from Waterfront Street. The first man, hardly more than
a boy she saw from the scarcity of his whiskers, jumped at her, grabbed her
arm, and twisted it viciously. She swung at him and her hat flew off, her curls
tumbling down from their loose knot.

"An Irish lass, then she is," cried a third one.

The fourth one, an older thug with a jutting brow and
narrow, mean eyes, leaned against the brick wall as if the spectacle were some
play which mildly amused him.

After a moment of tussling with her, the young one jerked
the shoe from her hand while the bleeding one thrust his face into hers,
smearing his blood on her cheek. She smelled his stinking breath and nearly
gagged. He grinned like a jackal as he suddenly placed a meaty hand at the top
of her blouse and ripped it downward in one quick jerk. Two of the men held her
arms behind her back while she kicked out in short jabs with her shod foot.

"God's blood, look at them tits," the man called
Mikey said. "Betcha the hair on her cunny's as lovely as this," he
added gripping her hair in one hand and pulling back hard enough to bring tears
to her eyes.

"Bet she tastes real good too," said another,
smacking thick, chapped lips.

As she struggled against their iron grips, Emma realized how
utterly foolish she'd been to venture here alone so late at night. She'd never
been in this part of the capitol city and had assumed the hansom driver would
remain when she'd plied him with several coins. She knew exactly what fate
these men intended for her and knew she'd be fortunate if they didn't murder
her after they assaulted her.

Her legs became boneless and she nearly collapsed on the
dirt ground. Bile rose sharp and acrid in her throat. If one of them touched a
filthy mouth to hers, she'd vomit, she thought hysterically.

"Let's take her to Johnny's place," the young one
suggested. "Don't want no one to hear her scream." He leered at her
and reached forth to twist her breast in his grubby hand.

She winced, but refused to cry out even when the one leaning
casually against the wall straightened and began to unbuckle his belt. "No
need to wait," he said, his voice and face deadly composed as if he assaulted
women in the ordinary course of his day. "Lift her skirts and let's see
what she's got."

Two of the men braced her against the wall while the third
raised her skirts and tore off her drawers. The frigid air whipped around her
bare thighs. She couldn't stop the tears now. They streamed down her face and
she shut her eyes tightly so as not to see the dark stranger with the ugly eyes
advancing toward her.

The warning came from the north end of the alley, and the
owner of the quiet, deadly voice was unmistakable. "That would be a
serious mistake, my friend."

Emma's eyes flew open and she wrenched from the two men who'd
pinned her against the wall as they fell back in surprise.

Her skirts bunched around her waist while she stumbled to
the ground, feeling sharp pebbles dig into her palms. Malachi's eyes flickered
once toward her, across her exposed breasts, and downward to the nakedness
below her waist.

Something primordial glinted in his narrowed eyes and even
in the dimness of the alley she could read the wash of emotions playing across
the hard planes of his cheeks. He was furious. At her or the animals who had
cornered her, she couldn't tell.

The ostensible leader swung slowly around, his unbuttoned
trousers bothering him not in the least apparently, for his movements were as
stealthy and lethal as a panther. "We ain't your friends, mister, and you'd
do well to walk away from what's not your concern."

White teeth flashed in the dark background of Malachi's
face, but no humor showed in his eyes. "Ah, but this is very much my
business," he said, smiling dangerously. "The woman belongs to me."

Emma bristled under the implied ownership, but she caught a
look from Malachi and quickly suppressed her objections. Four against one were
not good odds and she couldn't be sure he had armed himself. That matter was
quickly settled when he removed a pistol from inside his jacket and brandished
it negligently at his side.

Long moments passed while the leader appeared to consider
the threat of the man holding the daunting weapon. At last he grinned and
raised his shoulders in a Gaelic shrug. "Perhaps you should keep your
woman under closer guard, my friend."

Edging backwards, the four men reached the street and turned
quickly around the corner, their boots clacking loudly on the wooden sidewalk
as they moved toward the river.

"Jesus, Emma, what idiocy have you gotten up to now?"

#

Malachi prepared to give Emma a berating the likes of which
she'd never seen. Hurtling off willy-nilly into the most dangerous section of
the city, telling no one where she'd gone, taking no protection. And where the
hell was her cab?

But one look into her pale face, a ghostly hue against the
frame of her russet hair tumbling raggedly about her shoulders, and he
swallowed the words in his throat. "Jesus, Emma," he repeated softly,
removing his greatcoat and draping it about her exposed breasts and torn
garments.

He pulled her dress down, and she winced even though his
touch was deliberately gentle.
"Christ."

Her slender body shook, but her eyes, wide and dark in the
dim light, remained dry. She was likely going into shock. "Jesus," he
said once again, using his handkerchief to wipe at the grit on her face and her
palms.

He skimmed his hands over her body, feeling for broken limbs
or serious cuts. She winced once as he pressed against her middle – a bruised
or broken rib, most likely – but otherwise remained emotionless.

Carefully he scooped her up and strode down the blackened
alley to the post where he'd hitched Bathsheba minutes earlier. The horse shied
and danced away.

"Shh, old girl, hold still." He soothed the horse
with gentle murmurs meant for both the woman in his arms and the animal. "You'll
be fine. It's all right, old girl."

Setting her sideways in front of him on the horse, Malachi
began a steady canter away from the river's edge and the docks' rank smells. Five
miles down the rough road northeast to Placer Hills, the shock of what Emma had
endured, had suffered from those street blackguards, of what she'd nearly lost
at their filthy hands, set in, and fury on her behalf ripped through him.