The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (10 page)

“I don’t know that Father can do anything about that, Margot.”

“No, not about the rally. What sort of people are attracted by all that white Christian America nonsense?”

“They must not think it’s nonsense.”

“But it’s so—so ignorant!” She stiffened, and glared at him, pushing her teacup aside, leaning forward. “You agree with me, surely? Think about Hattie, and Blake—and Sarah Church!”

He was grinning at her now, and she said, “What?”

“There you are, looking fierce as a thunderstorm, and you wonder why all the servants tremble in their boots when they see you coming!”

Margot subsided, giving a little flick of her fingers as if she could brush the whole subject aside. “The thing is, Dick, there’s a Klan office here, and Blake tells me they’ve agitated to keep Negroes and Chinese out of certain neighborhoods. The Churches’ home is in one of those areas.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“That’s what I said. Blake thought it was possible the Churches could be pushed out of their own house, even though they’re the owners.”

The remnants of Dick’s smile faded, and he leaned his elbows on the table. “I’ve heard of this in other cities, but I thought Seattle—I mean, it’s not a new idea. But Sarah Church—she’s a professional!”

“So is her mother. And, Dick, lots of Negroes, and Chinese, too, are professionals. Doctors, lawyers, teachers . . . they’re no different from us.”

“They claim it’s about property values, I suppose.”

“They can claim what they like,” she said. The old sense of frustration she had suffered when she was struggling against bias in her profession made her voice bitter. “It’s blatant racism, just the same.”

Dick considered for a moment, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowed as he gazed at the darkness beyond the picture window. “I don’t know, Margot. There may not be anything we can do.”

“We can try, can’t we? Talk to the mayor, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “Our business depends on goodwill in the city, Margot. I feel sorry for the Churches, but—maybe they’d be happier living in one of the Negro neighborhoods.”

“You can’t mean that!”

“It’s not fair, of course. I see that.”

“Not fair! It’s—it’s criminal!”

“Evidently not, or the police would stop it. There would be laws—”

“Laws!” Margot spat. “The law lags a hundred years behind, it seems to me!”

Her brother put up his hands and grinned at her. “There you go again, Margot.”

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers, drawing a deep breath behind her palms. When she released the breath and dropped her hands, she tried to speak more calmly. “Dick, you have to understand. Sarah is something special. She could have been a physician if she wanted to.” Margot pushed herself up from the table. “Or if she could have afforded medical school.”

“Come on, Margot. You’re tired. It may not happen, in any case.” Dick stood up, too, and came around the table to open the dining room door.

Margot walked past him, and together they turned toward the staircase and started up. “It’s just not right, Dick. They don’t have the right to do this.”

“It’s a tough world,” Dick said. In an unusual display of affection, he put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “You can’t fix the whole world, Margot.”

She managed a dry chuckle. “That’s exactly what Frank says.”

“Listen to your husband, then.” He smiled and released her. “Good man, Frank.”

“I know.” She gave him a grateful look and turned toward her own room. A bath, a book, an early night. A long sleep was just what she needed.

Dick stopped her with a hand on her arm. In a low voice, he said, “Margot, about Mother.”

She glanced down the hall at the closed door to her parents’ large bedroom. The door to their bath was closed, too. “What, Dick?”

“Ramona tells me she talks endlessly about this child—this other child.”

“The one Preston claims, you mean.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Ramona says she’s obsessed with it. Him.”

“Oh, dear,” Margot said heavily. “That must hurt Ramona. And you, too.”

Dick gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I always knew Mother preferred Preston over the two of us. I’m used to it.”

“But your little girl—”

“Fortunately, Louisa has the most devoted mother in the world.” He smiled a little. “I can’t imagine Ramona favoring our next child over Louisa!”

“No, of course not.” Margot yawned. “Are you planning the next one already, Dick?”

At this he laughed. “No, the next one is yours and Frank’s.”

“Now you really do sound like my husband!” It felt good to say that, to say the words
my husband
. Even after a year of marriage, it gave her a little thrill of pride, and of happiness, that a man like Frank—handsome, smart, brave—was her husband.

She and her brother smiled at each other as they parted, and moved on toward their separate beds. Margot was still smiling when she turned out her light. She couldn’t help imagining, as she laid her head on the pillow, how her own child—and Frank’s—might look. Not fair like Louisa, of course. Dark, like the two of them, but surely with Frank’s wonderful blue eyes.

In the last moments before she slept, she thought of how terrible it would be if Preston were telling the truth. She wasn’t inclined to believe anything he said, ever, but if she believed there really was a Benedict child somewhere in Seattle—a Benedict child without the protection and love of this fierce and loyal family—it would break her heart.

C
HAPTER
10

In the chill half-darkness that preceded the summer dawn, Bronwyn dressed in a green linen traveling suit and printed cotton shirtwaist. She slipped out of her bedroom and tiptoed down the stairs in her stocking feet. She had her valise in one hand, and her sturdiest shoes, a pair of Mary Janes with brass buckles, in the other. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a green hatband, and she carried a small handbag, with all the money she possessed and a scrap of paper with an address on it.

Holding her breath, she unlocked the front door and eased it open. When she closed it she waited, head tilted, to be certain no one had heard her. In the suspended silence of the small hours, when even the birds still seemed to be sleeping, she picked her way carefully over the brick path to the street. She had to set her things down to buckle on her shoes, then resumed her burdens and started down the hill toward the ferry dock.

By the time she crossed Water Street to reach the dew-slicked boardwalk, the sky was brightening, and workmen in coveralls and flat canvas caps were calling to one another as they moved to and fro, their shoulders bent beneath coils of thick rope or wooden toolboxes hung on wide leather straps. They cast sideways glances at the well-dressed young woman coming among them in the chill dawn, but no one spoke to her. The air smelled of salt and fish and the greasy tang of diesel oil. The breeze rippled Bronwyn’s hat brim and cut through the cloth of her jacket, making her shiver. Men shouted back and forth, their voices competing with the strident calls of the seagulls that swarmed above the docks as the light began to rise.

Three boats bobbed in the dark water beside the dock, two on one side and the third on the opposite. It was huge, three hundred feet at least, with a curved railing running all the way around a high passenger deck, and a wide ramp for automobiles to be loaded into the lower deck. A man in a smart uniform and cap stood with his hands in his pockets, supervising the loading of wooden crates tied up with brown rope. He was giving orders to two laborers, but when he saw Bronwyn he turned away from them. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and started down the little gangway, sliding his hands along the rope railings. He looked familiar, and when she saw that the name of his ship was
The City of Olympia,
she remembered. She and her mother had taken it to Vancouver, and this man had been solicitous of her pregnant state. He might remember her. He might even stop her from boarding.

She spun away from his sharp gaze, and walked purposefully toward the other two boats, trying to act as if she knew what she was doing. Her valise bumped awkwardly against her leg, and she had to hold her hat with her other hand. She wished she had thought to use a hatpin, although since she had cut her hair, it wasn’t as effective as it had once been.

The morning light rose swiftly. She could make out the details of the two smaller boats, and her heart sank. One was clearly cargo only, its decks crowded with barrels and boxes. A bearded man with a large stomach beneath a canvas jacket was already unwrapping the mooring rope from its bollard.

The second boat couldn’t have been more than thirty feet long, dwarfed by the ship opposite it. There was no upper deck, and certainly no space for even a single automobile. Bronwyn gazed in dismay at its splintered wooden sides, the dents in its bow, and the angry hissing of its boiler, which she could hear even from the dock. All her fears about disasters at sea came rushing back. She bit her lip, wondering if she should take her chances with the big ferry. If that man refused her, though, if he sent her back home, would she have another chance? If her parents had found her note, if they knew what she planned, she would lose what little freedom she had left.

As she hesitated, a man came around from the starboard side of the little boat, and when he saw her, dashed down the gangway. She sucked in a startled breath, and began to back away, but he rushed toward her, saying, “Miss! Miss! Wait!”

His appearance didn’t inspire confidence. He was scrawny and slight, half a head shorter than she, and dressed in a pair of stained coveralls and a shirt with a frayed collar. As he approached, she saw that he was young, very likely no older than she was. His very eagerness frightened her, as if he were desperate for custom, and she was the only prospect in sight.

He skidded to a stop directly in front of her. “Miss, are you wanting to travel? To go somewhere? I’ll take you—Edmonds, Kingston, Olympia—where is it you’re wanting to be?” He gestured back at his poor little boat with its splintered hull and noisy engine. “This is the
Sadie Ann,
named for my mother, and I’m her captain. I know she don’t look like much, but I promise you, she’s just as reliable as my mama is! She’ll get you where you want to go!” As Bronwyn still hesitated, the young man said, his bony face full of hope, “Got any money, miss?”

Bronwyn was on the point of saying that no, she had no money at all, but a loud voice from the boardwalk made her flinch. “Hey, Bronwyn! Bronwyn Morgan! Hang on a minute!”

It was Johnnie Johnson, and he looked as if he hadn’t been to bed at all. His face was puffy, his steps angry as he stamped toward her. His shoes echoed on the wooden boards. “Hey!” he shouted again. “Whatcha think you’re doin’? I’m thinkin’ you owe me!”

Bronwyn whirled to face the unprepossessing young boatman. “Yes!” she said hastily. “Yes, I have money! Can you take me to Seattle?” Before he could answer, she picked up her valise, clutched her hat onto her head with her free hand, and started up the gangway. It swayed under her weight, and the cleats were slippery with morning dew. She thought for one terrible moment she might slip, and fall into the greasy-looking water as those poor people had done on the Colman Dock, but the scrawny young man caught her by the shoulders with surprisingly gentle hands, and steadied her until she set her feet safely on the deck.

He was, she soon understood, more capable than he looked. He pulled up the gangway in a matter of seconds, so that by the time Johnnie reached the
Sadie Ann,
there was no way for him to board her. Johnnie stood on the dock for a moment, shouting imprecations at Bronwyn, but the young captain took her arm and escorted her, with an elegance more suited to a tearoom than the deck of a dilapidated boat, around to the far side of the pilothouse, where its bulk blocked Johnnie’s view. There were two deck chairs and a long bench, all empty. At the stern, she saw a pile of wood, chopped into lengths for burning and neatly tied down. The pilothouse, lit by an oil lamp, seemed to be empty.

Bronwyn quavered, “Don’t you have a crew?”

Her captain grinned, showing a gap between his two front teeth, but making his brown eyes dance. “Don’t need one!” he said.

“Am I the only passenger?”

“Sure! That’s the best way—no side trips.” He patted one of the chair backs, indicating she should sit. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, miss. I’ll have you in Seattle by dinnertime!”

Bronwyn took the deck chair the captain had indicated, and clung to it as the boiler’s hissing grew louder. The engine of the
Sadie Ann
clanked and gurgled. The skinny young boatman scrambled here and there, casting off, tossing chunks of wood into the furnace, then scampering into the pilothouse. Moments later, the
Sadie Ann
chugged smoothly away from the dock. As they headed toward open water, Bronwyn glanced back. Johnnie still fumed on the dock, standing with his thick hands on his hips and his hat pushed back on his head.

Bronwyn jumped up from her chair and crossed the narrow deck. She clung to the wet rail with one hand, soaking her cotton glove. With the other hand, she pulled off her hat and waved it at Johnnie. She was too far away to see precisely, but she was confident his face would be purple with anger, and the thought made her laugh into the wind. She felt daring and independent, and she also felt alone as she had never been in her life. She was frightened, but she was exhilarated. She had done it! She had made her escape, and whatever was to become of her now would be all her own doing.

 

Her young captain’s name, she soon learned, was Albert. Beneath his grimy cap he had a thatch of dirty blond hair, and his upper lip was barely disguised by a wispy yellow mustache. He told her his surname, but it was something Scandinavian and complicated, and she didn’t catch it. It didn’t seem to matter. Albert guided his little vessel past Point Hudson and out into the Strait, where passenger ships and ferries and freighters carved their way through the whitecaps. The wind stung Bronwyn’s ears and nipped at her hat brim until she gave up and took it off. Albert pointed the bow of the
Sadie Ann
south and east, and ran back and forth between the boiler and the pilothouse every few minutes. As the
Sadie Ann
picked up speed, Bronwyn’s eyes began to stream, and she sniffled indelicately, her handkerchief soon sodden.

Albert noticed, and came to pull her to her feet. “Miss Morgan! Come into the pilothouse, out of the wind. Nothin’ fancy, mind.”

She accepted this graceful invitation with alacrity. He was correct, of course, that there was nothing fancy about the inside of the pilothouse. It was piled with oily ropes and cans and boxes of every description, and it smelled strongly of fish, but it was such a relief to be away from the bite of the wind that she didn’t care.

“No proper chair,” Albert said, as he produced a three-legged stool for her to sit on.

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “This is perfect.” She mopped her eyes with the damp handkerchief, and blew her nose one more time, then settled her hat back on her head.

Albert went to stand before the large wooden wheel, one hand around one of the spokes, the other thrust with self-conscious insouciance into the pocket of his jacket. Bronwyn turned her head to hide her smile, and fixed her gaze on the view of the coastline. They steamed steadily past inlets and coves, hills dark with evergreens, gravelly beaches here and there. An occasional cabin chimney sent spirals of clear gray smoke into the summer air.

At length, when she felt warm again, and her nose had stopped running, Bronwyn stood, straightening her jacket and smoothing back her wind-ruffled hair. She was only a step or two from Albert, and she moved forward to stand at his shoulder, peering ahead to assess their progress.

“I have sandwiches and root beer,” he said with pride. “My mother always sends me out with provisions.”

“You live at home, then?” Bronwyn said, and added, with a fractional pause, “Captain?”

She knew she had said the right thing as she saw the flush of pride creep up his freckled cheeks. “Oh, yes,” he said, with a toss of his head. “Saving money, don’tcha know. For a bigger boat.” Then, with a sideways glance, “Not that there’s a thing wrong with the
Sadie Ann
!”

“Oh, no, I can see that,” Bronwyn murmured. “It’s—I mean, she’s a fine boat.”

“That she is, Miss Morgan. Not like some of these diesel boats, everything slimy and stinking of bunker oil. You wouldn’t like standing in the pilothouse of one of those, I can tell you! Turn your stomach, that smell.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all,” Bronwyn assured him. “It’s very pleasant in here.”

They sailed on for a time in companionable silence, watching the great black freighters with their angled stacks steaming toward the Pacific. Waves rippled out from their wakes, and set the
Sadie Ann
rocking, but Bronwyn found she wasn’t in the least afraid. Albert was young, but it was obvious he knew his boat, and knew the channels and passages, too. She folded her arms, balancing easily on her feet as the boat climbed a steep wave and then settled again in smooth water.

Albert cast her a sidelong glance. “Found your sea legs already, miss,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back at him. “I suppose I have,” she said. “I’ve never been on a boat so small. I mean, this size.”

“My first boat,” he said. “Have to start somewhere.”

“You have big plans, I gather,” Bronwyn said. “Did you always want to be a boatman?”

“Oh, yes, miss,” Albert said with assurance. “My grandfather was a boatman in Norway, and my father, too. When he came here, he had to work for somebody else, but I want to be my own man. Born in the twentieth century, don’tcha know, and times is different from what they was.”

“That’s very true,” Bronwyn said.

With a small, private sigh, she reflected that it was true for her, too, or it would be soon. Her parents wanted to believe times had not changed, but they had. The society they had placed their faith in, that had worked so well for them, no longer existed. They believed in ladies and gentlemen, in honor and honesty, in purity and faith. A wave of sorrow swept over her, as cold and deep as the ones the
Sadie Ann
rode so bravely.

As if he could hear her thoughts, her young captain said, “So, Miss Morgan, you haven’t said why you’re going to Seattle. Not forced to run away from that bravo on the pier, I hope?”

Bronwyn gurgled with laughter. “Johnnie! Oh, no, not at all!”

“He didn’t want you to leave, that was clear.”

“He’s just angry because I—well, I sort of stood him up.”

“Not your fiancé, then.”

“Oh, my goodness, no! Not Johnnie.” The idea of Johnnie Johnson as her fiancé gave her a slight shock, and a feeling of disgust—not just for poor Johnnie, but for herself. What had she been thinking, trying to drown her misery at the Cellar? She should have taken this step long ago, left Port Townsend the moment she realized she could never regain her standing. She blew out a breath, and said, “I think you have the right idea, Captain. Be your own man. Don’t take orders from anyone.”

“That’s it, Miss Morgan,” he agreed, nodding. “That’s it. A new world since the Great War. Do whatever we like.”

She glanced at him. “Did you fight, Albert?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I wanted to. They said I was too young.”