Worthy Brown's Daughter (12 page)

CHAPTER 26

M
atthew opened his eyes, but he couldn’t focus. When he turned his head toward the light, slivers of pain pierced his pupils. After he’d rested a bit, he raised his eyelids slowly, letting the sunlight in a little at a time. It still hurt, but it didn’t sting as it had before. Without the pain from the light to distract him, he could feel his head throb. He closed his eyes again and drifted off to sleep.

The next time Matthew woke up Heather was sitting next to his bed. She wore a plain gray dress, her brow was creased with worry, and her face was free of makeup, but he thought that she had never looked lovelier.

“Matthew,” Heather said when she noticed his eyes were open. He wanted to say something, but it took too much effort to speak, so he just stared.

Heather touched Matthew’s cheek. “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”

Matthew could hear the worry in her voice. He tried to say her name, but his throat was so dry that he could only croak. Heather disappeared, returning a moment later with a cup of water. She tipped his head up to make drinking easier and held the rim of the cup to his lips.

“Only sip a little. Dr. Sharp says you must drink slowly at first.”

Matthew had difficulty swallowing. He coughed up the first mouthful but succeeded with the next.

“Good. That’s better,” Heather said.

Drinking a few mouthfuls exhausted Matthew. He lay back on his pillow and rested his eyes, but he managed to stay awake.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“In a guest room in my house.”

It suddenly dawned on Matthew that he had no idea why he would be in a guest room in Gillette House or how he’d gotten injured. His inability to remember was unsettling.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days.”

“Two days?” Matthew repeated.

“You’ve been unconscious most of the time.”

“What happened to me?” he asked.

“Don’t you know?”

Matthew started to shake his head but stopped when a bolt of pain shot through it.

“You rescued Roxanne Brown. Do you remember that?”

Matthew knew who Roxanne was, but his only memory of her was from court.

“I can’t . . . I don’t remember.”

“Caleb Barbour attacked Roxanne. You saved her and brought her here.”

“How was I injured?”

“Worthy Brown killed Barbour. Some men were beating him. You tried to stop them, and you were knocked out. Marshal Lappeus rescued you.”

“Worthy killed Barbour?”

“He’s in jail.”

Matthew sensed that something wasn’t right, but he didn’t have the energy to figure out what was bothering him, and he was too tired to ask another question. He closed his eyes.

“I’d like to rest now, if that’s okay.”

Matthew heard Heather leave the room. The short conversation had exhausted him, but nagging questions kept him awake. Roxanne hurt by Barbour, Barbour dead, and Worthy Brown in jail for Barbour’s murder. It made sense but . . . But what? The answer was just out of reach when he fell asleep.

THE NEXT MORNING A LIGHT
rain fell. It stopped around eleven, and the day was sunny by the early afternoon. Dr. Sharp had told Heather that fresh air would be good for Matthew. With Heather at his elbow, he made his way into the garden along a path strewn with fallen leaves. Even though the walk was short, it exhausted him and he had to rest in the gazebo to get his wind back. When Matthew regained his strength, they set out along the garden paths again.

“How is Roxanne managing?” Matthew asked after a while.

“Her mental state is poor. She has no interest in food, and her sleep is troubled. The maid tells me she has nightmares.”

“Does she know that Worthy’s been arrested for Barbour’s murder?”

“Marshal Lappeus talked to her to try to find out what happened. He told her about her father.”

“What did Roxanne tell him?”

“Not much. She was very frightened when he interviewed her. The marshal gave up when he saw how much his questions upset her.”

“Has she told you anything else?”

“I haven’t asked. She deserves peace and forgetfulness.”

Matthew and Heather rounded the side of the house. Heather was talking about Dr. Sharp’s diagnosis when the steps that led to the front porch came into view. For an instant, Caleb Barbour stretched across them, blood pooling under his head. Matthew froze. He didn’t remember seeing Barbour’s dead body, but the memory or hallucination or whatever it was seemed so real.

“What’s wrong?” Heather asked.

“Nothing,” he lied. “I just feel faint. Maybe we should go inside.”

CHAPTER 27

O
n their third day in San Francisco, Benjamin Gillette told Sharon Hill that he had a business meeting that would take up most of the day. He apologized for abandoning her and gave her money with which to enjoy herself until the evening, when he promised her a dinner she would not forget. Hill placed the bills in her purse, knowing that they would stay there until the afternoon. This morning she would not be visiting the charming boutiques and jewelry stores of the West Coast’s greatest metropolis. She would be going to a part of San Francisco that no one described as charming.

In the late 1840s, Latin American whores, intent on mining the forty-niners, pitched their tents near the foot of Broadway and Pacific. Around the whores there soon settled hundreds of convicts shipped by the British from penal colonies in Sydney, Australia, and Tasmania. It wasn’t long before the area bounded by Broadway, the waterfront, Powell Street, and Commercial was known as the Barbary Coast, a wicked place where respectable San Franciscans did not go and even the police entered only in pairs and never at night.

Sharon Hill knew the Barbary Coast intimately and had chosen a well-worn, plain brown dress for her outing so as not to draw the attention of the thieves, tramps, and cutthroats who called the coast home. For safety’s sake, she also carried her derringer and a knife, though there was less chance she’d need them in the light of day, when many of the neighborhood blackguards were sleeping or passed out drunk. Hill’s destination was the Dancing Bear, a thoroughly disreputable saloon owned by an equally disreputable attorney.

The ground floor of the Dancing Bear smelled of smoke, stale beer, and vomit. Two prostitutes, looking pasty and aged without their makeup or the protection afforded by dim lighting, sat at a table near the bar. A rich nob was sleeping it off at a corner table, doubtless stripped of the coin he’d carried when he’d entered sober and eager the night before. Hill paid them no attention as she crossed the room and climbed the stairs. There were many rooms on the second-floor in which the whores entertained. Hill passed them by and stopped in front of the farthest door, which bore the words
BERNARD R. HOXIE, COUNSELOR-AT-LAW
.

After a sharp knock, the door was opened by an armed and violent-looking thug whose presence was made necessary by the nature of Hoxie’s extra-legal endeavors.

“Yeah?” he asked, with no pretense of civility.

“Would you please tell Mr. Hoxie that Sharon Hill, a friend of attorney Caleb Barbour of Portland, is here to speak to him about a legal matter?”

“Let her in, Macy,” intoned a deep, rumbling voice from within the room.

The bodyguard stepped aside. Though it was daytime, the curtains were drawn. Lamplight shone dimly, illuminating some but not all of an office crammed with legal papers, lawbooks, and locked filing cabinets. Dominating the clutter was Bernard Hoxie, a fat man of epic proportions.

“Bring a chair for the young woman, Macy,” Bernard Hoxie commanded.

Macy placed a straight-back, wooden chair in front of Hoxie’s desk, and Hill sat down.

“Forgive me for not standing,” Hoxie said.

Sharon smiled.

“So, you say you’re a friend of Mr. Barbour, and you’re here on a legal matter?”

Hill nodded. “One requiring discretion and your unique talents.”

Hoxie looked at his visitor’s attire. It was plain and unpromising. “I’m expensive, Miss Hill.”

“Don’t let the clothes fool you. I couldn’t very well walk through the Barbary Coast looking like the queen of England, could I?”

“Go ahead.”

“I need a marriage contract prepared, one that will hold up in court, should that become necessary.”

“Why are you asking me? Any lawyer can prepare a marriage contract.”

From her purse, Hill withdrew a letter bearing Benjamin Gillette’s signature.

“The marriage contract has to have this signature on it, and it has to be prepared by an attorney who’s willing to swear, under oath, in a court of law, that the contract was signed in his presence by both parties. Are you up to that?”

Hoxie leaned back and folded his hands across his ample stomach. He studied Hill long enough to make her uncomfortable. Then he sat up as far as he was able.

“For the right price, I might be,” Hoxie said.

CHAPTER 28

M
atthew’s health was improving; he no longer needed to lean on Heather’s arm during the walks that had become their daily routine. This morning, the rain had stopped, the sun was shining, and the air was cool and crisp. Being with Matthew every day made Heather happy, but she sensed that something was bothering him.

“What’s troubling you?” she asked.

“I didn’t sleep well again.”

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Matthew nodded. “I was in Barbour’s yard, and there was a wall of flame that went from the ground to the sky. It was terrifying, and Roxanne raced toward me. She had her arms spread out.” Matthew raised his to demonstrate. “Her eyes were wide with horror, and she was screaming.”

This was not the first nightmare he had recounted to Heather. On two occasions he had talked loudly enough in his sleep to bring her to his room.

“What did Roxanne say?” Heather asked.

“I think she was just screaming. If she said something to me, I can’t recall what it was.”

“You’re just remembering what happened when you rescued Roxanne. She must have been in a panic. She’d been beaten and violated. She was escaping from a burning house.”

“What you say makes sense, but . . .” He shook his head. “It just seems that there’s more to it . . . something happened that I can’t remember that would explain the dreams.”

“They’re just dreams, and dreams are often nonsensical. You’ve been through a brutal and frightening experience. You saved Roxanne from fire and violence, and you were beaten unconscious trying to protect Mr. Brown. That would unsettle anyone.”

“You’re probably right.” Matthew said. “Let’s not talk about my dreams anymore.” He looked up at the sky. Clouds were gathering in the distance. “I don’t think this weather will last for long. Let’s enjoy the day.”

Matthew took Heather’s hand, and his mood changed for the better. When they had begun these therapeutic walks, Matthew had needed to lean heavily on Heather for support. When he could make do without her help, they had walked side by side without touching. But yesterday, midway through their stroll, Matthew had reached for Heather’s hand, and she let him take it. That simple act had signaled a change in their relationship. Neither had spoken about it, but the heat from Heather’s hand filled Matthew with joy and made him feel the way he used to feel with Rachel.

While they ambled through the garden, Heather did most of the talking, and her enthusiasm made Matthew smile. Heather was so positive, so upbeat, that Matthew found it hard to be depressed in her presence, despite the pain from his injuries and his concern for Worthy Brown. As they neared the woods, Heather talked about a story she was writing for the paper. Then she switched to a discussion of a dish she was thinking of asking the cook to make for dinner.

Matthew let his mind wander when they entered a path that led into the forest, and a thought occurred to him. Over the past few days, bits and pieces of his attempt to rescue Worthy had come back to him. Most of his memories were fuzzy, but he had a vivid memory of seeing Barbour’s badly burned corpse sprawled along the front porch steps when he’d raced into the front yard where Brown was being assaulted. He’d also had another vision while out walking with Heather in which Barbour was dead but his flesh had not been ravaged by the fire.

Matthew stopped so suddenly that Heather asked again if something was bothering him. Matthew lied and said he felt fatigued. While they walked back to the house, Matthew worked out the only possible scenario that fit the facts. He had to have seen Barbour’s corpse on two separate occasions.

In Matthew’s nightmare, Roxanne had run out of a burning house. Matthew knew that Barbour had made it out of his house because his body was found on the porch. If his house was on fire, Barbour would have run out, too, and he would have run out before or shortly after Roxanne. How did his body get burned? There was only one possible answer. The roof that overhung the porch had caught fire and collapsed. If Barbour’s body was stretched out on the steps, he would have caught on fire.

Matthew concluded that he must have seen the unburned corpse when he rescued Roxanne and the burned corpse when he returned for Worthy. Who had slain Barbour if Worthy was not present when Matthew rescued Roxanne? As soon as he asked the question, Matthew’s memory of the events at Barbour’s house returned.

ROXANNE PULLED THE CURTAIN BACK
a fraction of an inch so she could spy on Miss Heather and Mr. Penny as they walked in the garden. Her shoulder was pressed against the wall so she wouldn’t be seen if the couple looked up. She didn’t want anyone to see her. She didn’t want anyone to be in the same room with her. She felt soiled by the thing Caleb Barbour had done to her. She felt unfit to be in the presence of decent people.

When Matthew and Heather disappeared from view, Roxanne sat down in the wicker chair next to her bed. Miss Heather treated her so well, but how would she act if she knew what Roxanne had done with Mr. Barbour? She hadn’t wanted to do that thing; she had fought as hard as she could, but that didn’t change what had happened. And now her father might hang because of her.

Roxanne remembered the night her master came home drunk and made her shine his boots. She could have run away that night, but fear had paralyzed her. She deserved what Mr. Barbour had done to her. It was her punishment. She had known what would happen if she stayed in Mr. Barbour’s house; she’d seen the books in Mr. Barbour’s room and the way he looked at her. She knew and she’d stayed, and now her father would pay the price of her cowardice.