Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (9 page)
“The actions of men, not your wilderness, Matthew.”
“I want you safe,” he whispered fiercely.
At the beginnings of the steep road that clung to the mountainside a twenty-foot avalanche of snow blocked their way. Olana watched Matthew approach, stare his Goliath down, then return to her side.
“I can dig for a while, test how solid, how deep it is. But if I can’t get through … Olana, I’m sorry, I’ll have to take you back.”
“Back?”
“I’m sorry.”
She raised the netting of her hat. He lowered his lips to hers. Their passion sparked through the layers of clothing and furs. She had demanded he take her home for so long. Now it was the thought of returning to his tree making her giddy with happiness.
She touched his face. “Do you spend Christmas at home in your tree, Mr. Hart?”
“What?”
“I want you all to myself that day at least! You’ll take me with you if you go out? And I’ll make us a lovely dinner. And presents.”
“I haven’t celebrated Christmas in years.”
His voice. A boy’s. A reader’s. Wondering what would happen next. They heard faint scratching, sounds of human voices coming from the embankment. He uttered a soft blasphemy. She clung to his coat. The sounds grew louder. He reached behind her in the sleigh and put the long pistol in her hands.
“At a distance, heart. Close up, head. Remember?”
She nodded.
“Don’t think about anything else.”
Like the sight of him, dead, his blood splattering the snow, which would be the only way the Carsons could get to her, they both knew. Their eyes steadied on each other before he scrambled up the embankment with his rifle.
The snow dislodged about eight feet up. A foot booted its way through. Matthew Hart dug around the hole and watched.
“Matty! Bless my soul, it’s Matty, boys!” Farrell shouted behind him. “You all right?”
“Sure.”
“Want to be pointing your Winchester out of my snoot, then?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Farrell’s voice went mournful. “You ain’t seen that fancy newspaperwoman Miss Whittaker anywhere in your travels, have you?”
“I have at that.”
“What? Alive?”
“See for yourself,” the ranger offered, pulling Farrell through the ever-enlarging passage.
The wiry camp’s cook looked at Olana in amazement, then at his horse with wondrous love. “The devil take me for giving up on you and my Rosaleen both, Miss!” he shouted, waving wildly.
Olana threw back her head and laughed. She watched men climb through the passage after Farrell — rangers, men from the road crew, their faces beaming. Why? Because they’d given her up for dead.
Then Sidney Lunt, editor of the Gold Coast Chronicle appeared. Dear Sidney, looking as out of place in his trademark latest fashioned, black-and-white creased trousers and flaring dustcoat, his black hair with a wave of dashing silver, his waxed mustache. He too was grinning like a child on Christmas morning. Dear, dear Sidney.
The last man through stumbled. Matthew Hart caught his arm, steadied him. The man’s squared, pugnacious, familiar form looked short next to Matthew Hart’s height. But his worn and grieving face made hers glow with pride. She bounded up from beneath the animal skins.
“Papa!”
Matthew Hart, usually as still as his woods, was pacing. This wasn’t a good beginning, Thomas Parker reasoned. Best to tell him straight out. That stopped the ranger stone still.
“No.”
“Don’t you know the social circles the Whittakers travel in, man?”
“No, I don’t, Mr. Parker. Don’t care either. But I got my own work to do.”
“It can wait.”
“But I was just starting to chart —”
“I’m your superior and I say it can wait!”
Matthew Hart bristled visibly at the military tone in Thomas Parker’s voice. Parker exhaled, started again. “Matthew. Your work healing Miss Whittaker is not finished.”
“Due only to the fact that she won’t pay my advice any mind.”
“But she’d have to if you were in the paid employment of her father, brought to their home in San Francisco for the expressed purpose of overseeing her recovery.”
“I hate San Francisco.”
Thomas Parker transferred his look of dismay to the papers scattered on his desk. “I understand, Matthew. Didn’t we share the glorious work it was to build that road? Don’t I envy you, ranging those hills, now that the arthritis eating my knees has me stuck here writing petition after worthless petition?”
Matthew Hart looked into the eyes of the only man besides his grandfather he’d ever trusted. “Are you taking the concoction —”
“Yes, I’m fighting down that slippery witch’s brew of yours. And it helps, with the pain. But my legs are going, we both know that.”
The ranger thought about how hearty the frail figure before him had been three years ago, when he’d signed on the road crew. It was himself a liability then, broken with his loss. Only Mr. Parker was willing to give him a chance. No pity, Matthew reminded himself. He’s still man enough to send you through the floorboards. He listened.
“The point is, I’m stuck here fighting on paper. Fighting the lumber companies and sheepmen, the land speculators who want to jack the price so high that the government will never purchase the remaining acres we need. Don’t you see the value you’d be to us among the Whittakers, the people they know? If we could get their support —”
“I’m no politician.”
“You can speak eloquently enough when roused — I saw that when Miss Olana Whittaker first came among us.”
“Damn the woman!”
“Bless the woman, Matthew. Between her pen and her social ties she might help you save these splendid trees from further destruction.”
Defeated before he even smelled it coming. Parker knew it, and was smiling. “Tell me, is it just Olana Whittaker or women in general that are the objects of your wrath?”
“Wrath?”
The older man laughed. “She’s charming, intelligent enough to have a man’s job, and more beautiful now than when she was plump and gussied up in her finery. You must have behaved yourself or she’d be hollering bloody blue murder. Wait. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Matthew Hart shifted his weight to both feet. “What?”
“This ‘damned woman’ business is nothing but a sham. You’re fond of the woman.”
“Never met a one I didn’t grow fond of, sir. But that doesn’t make them any less maddening.”
Parker stood. “I’m seeing a new dimension of you tonight, Matthew! You’re not the confirmed bachelor you’d like us to believe.”
Bachelor? Christ, he had too many women. Why was it so warm in Mr. Parker’s office? He shouldn’t mention it. Not polite.
Thomas Parker circled his desk and put his hand on the ranger’s shoulder. It hurt. “Did Mrs. Goddard dress your wounds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. But your eyes are heavy. Are you all right, Matt?”
“Sure.”
“It won’t be as bad as you imagine,” he promised. “Just until Christmas. A month, Matthew. And shave.”
“Don’t shave until spring.”
“It will feel like spring in San Francisco. Shave.”
As his hand touched the door’s latch, the ranger stopped, turned back. “I’ve got one last chance,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll speak Mr. Whittaker’s language. I’ll ask a price so high he doesn’t want me.”
“Oh, Matthew.” His superior sighed. “There isn’t one.”
San Francisco, California
NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 1903
He was fifteen again, and in the smoke-filled gambling parlor on the Barbary coast. His uncles were raising their glasses to him, smiling, accepting him into their company at last. He tried to look into their eyes this time — was there premeditated treachery there, or just the desperation their gambling debts had caused? But the prisms thrown from the glass were catching the dusty light, breaking it into rainbows. Then the glass was dropping from his hand. No. He willed the dream to stop.But the colors only blackened until the hull of the freighter, the stench of liquor, urine, and open, rotting mouths. The light shone again down the steep stairs.
“Get up, choir boy. You’re too pretty for such common company. You’re the captain’s catch.”
Matthew sprang up from the pillows, his arms tense. He was sweating, dizzy. Had he shouted? He listened for any echoes of his voice. The hull of the freighter was fading, the mahogany panels of the bedroom becoming real.
It was a mistake to come here. Mr. Parker didn’t know what he was asking.
There was a faint light in the room. And movement — mechanical, whirring, clacking. Matthew stumbled out of the huge
four-poster bed to find a child — a boy of seven or eight, watching a toy train on a track as it glided through a tunnel, past a miniature town, and countryside. The boy lifted his head, revealing an intense face, sparked with curiosity.
four-poster bed to find a child — a boy of seven or eight, watching a toy train on a track as it glided through a tunnel, past a miniature town, and countryside. The boy lifted his head, revealing an intense face, sparked with curiosity.
“Hello.”
Matthew smiled. “Hello yourself.”
“Did my train wake you?”
“No, not your train.”
The child lifted his small, square chin higher, reminding the ranger of the same gesture in Olana. “I shouldn’t think so. I keep the cars very well oiled.”
Matthew watched for permission, which the boy granted with an elegant nod of his tousled head, then squatted down beside him. He marveled at the locomotive’s tiny silver bell, the detailed pine and spruce trees.
“I went on a train like that once. With my grandmother. Went clear across the country, to Georgia.”
“You liked that,” the boy said, as he wound the locomotive, “You were happy then.”
“Yes.”
“You ought to think of that more.”
“More?”
“Than what gives you nightmares.”
He had shouted, he must have shouted, frightened the boy. The room went slightly out of focus, but he blinked and it came back. The child began grouping a pine forest on either side of the tracks.
“Where does your train go?”
“Istambul.”
“As far as that?”
The child shrugged his slight shoulders. “It may as well. It always comes back, always a circle. Who was in Georgia?”
“Gran’s friends. From when she was a girl. They thought I was someone else.”
“They will here, too.”
“Will they? Who?”
“Me.”
The ranger’s smile disappeared. “But — you’re a little boy.”
The child went back to his rearrangement of the countryside. “I miss Laney. Did you bring her back?”
“Who?”
“’Lana. That’s your name for her, isn’t it?”
He’d been so careful not to call her that, not to use any but her last name with the Miss attached, in front of her pale mother, the others. Hadn’t he? Who had told this child?
“I have a present for her,” the boy informed him. I’ll show you.”
“Why don’t you give it to her yourself?”
Ignoring his question, the child stopped the train as it pulled in beside their knees. “It’s in this car — remember. A comfortable car, one Laney would like.” He opened the pullman car’s door and took out a tiny doll in deep blue traveling clothes. She had chestnut hair touched with red flame, crowned by a resplendent hat.
“It’s her,” Matthew marveled.
“Is it?”
“Sure.”
The child sighed. “Mother and Father, they say only pastels are proper for her. But she favors dark, jewel colors. Why shouldn’t she have them? So, I ordered her the doll. But I never gave it to her.”
“Why?”
“They took her away to Aunt Winnie’s so she wouldn’t get my sore throat, you see?”
Matthew nodded, though he didn’t see at all. “She’s home now,” was all he could think to say.
“Find the doll, will you? Tell her it’s from me.”
“But —”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
The boy smiled for the first time. A dazzling smile, a gift. “I like having you here,” he said.
“This has been quite a welcome.”
Matthew Hart stood, swayed as he felt a sudden rush of blood at his temples. The boy took his elbow and steadied him with a firm grip, though he barely reached Matthew’s chest. A wistful look captured his small face.
“I’ll never grow as tall as you.”
Matthew smiled. “You never can tell.”
The elegant shoulders shrugged again. Small fingers traced the carved bedpost. He glanced twice at the door, shuffling his feet.
“Would you like to stay?” Matthew asked.
“Might I?”
“Sure.” He nodded toward the bed. “Which acre of this thing you want?”
The boy smiled. “Formidable, isn’t it?”
“Whole place is.”
“After you. I’ll stand watch awhile over your dreams.”
Matthew Hart returned to the bed’s comfort. He was barely conscious as he felt the small back curl up against his chest. Cold. He pulled the boy closer, draped his arm across the sharp shoulders.
“Who are you, child?”
Did he say it, or think it? He had little time to ponder as a deep, dreamless sleep overtook him.
The sound of the great forest-green drapery being pulled back from the windows awakened him, not the faint predawn light that escaped through. A woman — stout, starched, and annoyed was pulling. Matthew sat up as she opened the French doors that led to the third-floor balcony. A foggy breeze blew in through the lace curtains. She remained by the windows in her severe black dress piped in green, white cap atop her black spun-with-silver hair.
“It will be a close day,” she announced. “I’m Cook.”
Matthew scratched his phantom beard, now morning stubble. He never shaved until he went home every spring, but Mr. Parker
had insisted he do so before leaving Three Rivers for San Francisco. Olana had blushed at the first sight of him beardless saying, “It’s nice to see you.” What in hell did that mean? The stout woman was tapping her foot. Say something. “Cook. Is that your name, ma’am? Cook?”
had insisted he do so before leaving Three Rivers for San Francisco. Olana had blushed at the first sight of him beardless saying, “It’s nice to see you.” What in hell did that mean? The stout woman was tapping her foot. Say something. “Cook. Is that your name, ma’am? Cook?”
“No, sir. It’s Cole. Mrs. Cole. But I’m the cook, chief cook. Not chef of course, but cook. Marcel went over to the St. Francis Hotel. The Frenchies, they don’t stay here. No matter how many parties for them to show off their fancifications, they’re off to the hotels sooner or later. Loyalty, that’s all they get from me — twenty-five years of service!” She tilted her head. “Where are your people from, Mr. Hart?”
“Here, ma’am. California.”
She looked annoyed. “I mean before that?”
“Oh. Georgia.”
“And before they were Americans?” she persisted.
He searched back through the tales of his grandmother and the healing women of generations. Why was this woman asking him such hard questions before he was even awake? “Uh … Scotland, I think.”
“Across the water. We’re neighbors!” she proclaimed.
“Oh?”
“Yes, good, Celtic blood we share. You are no savage, sprung from those dreadful big trees, you are kin!” she proclaimed. “Now, don’t bother to align yourself with any Henri or Pierre, when we get one. No, sir. It’s I know where everything is downstairs, no here today gone tomorrow Frenchie ever learns my kitchen! I know the butcher’s wife likes lavender bath salts at Christmas, and how a jar of strawberry preserves for his little ones will get the iceman to leave me his best cut. I am, in a word, a force. A force not to be trifled with, Mr. Hart, by any member of or employed by this household, whichever it is you are, and notwithstanding our blood kinship.”
Matthew grinned, enjoying the stream of images her words produced in his head. She frowned.
“I must see to breakfast. I’ve come early to treat you, by special
request of Miss Olana, who says you could benefit from my healing salve.”
request of Miss Olana, who says you could benefit from my healing salve.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Did Miss Whittaker sleep well?”
“Better than you, I think.” She cast her glance on the damp, twisted sheets. “Suffered a fever did you?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Don’t know if you’re sick or not? And you hired to look after Miss Olana?”
He smiled at her pursed lips. “Not much by way of recommendation, is it?”
She felt his forehead with the heel of her hand. “Gone now, by the grace of God. Wash up, there’s a good gentleman, and I’ll have a look at the back.”
She had a light touch, so that he only winced at her own gasps as she lined each slash with her salve. “It must be a fearful place you come from, Mr. Hart!”
“No, ma’am. It’s a beautiful place. Only it pays to stay alert. Which as you’ve seen, I’m not, always.”
She laughed. He liked her softening voice, the healing scents that clung to the full white apron she’d donned, the way her strong arms moved in curving arcs as she worked. He judged it safe to mention the child without getting him into trouble.
“Mrs. Cole, who is the little boy?”
“Little boy?”
“He was here last night, with his train.”
Silence.
“Dark hair — cut like a bowl was put around his ears. In need of plumping, but wonderfully bright-minded?” he tried, turning in time to see Mrs. Cole finish crossing herself. He laughed uneasily. “I don’t mean to get him scolded, he was good company.”
Her voice went toneless. “Why did you want to stay in these rooms?” it demanded.
“I was put here.”
“Against Mrs. Whittaker’s wishes. It’s the Mister insisted.”
Matthew thought of the meeting with Olana’s mother, how she looked at him when her husband mentioned his quarters.
“Did I put the little boy out? Is that what Mrs. Whittaker was angry about? No wonder he didn’t want to leave.”
“Did I put the little boy out? Is that what Mrs. Whittaker was angry about? No wonder he didn’t want to leave.”
The cook’s voice became a hesitant whisper, as if she were asking him questions against her own will. “What did you do? When he didn’t want to leave?”
“Why, I took him to bed with me.”
“Saints Michael, Patrick, and Bridget, protect and defend me,” she whispered. “And where is he now?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Mrs. Cole.”
“Stop it!”
“Ma’am?”
“There is no little boy, Mr. Hart.”
“But …” He rose from the bed, walked to the place where he’d first discovered the child. He got on his knees, scanned the Persian carpet’s weave with his hands. “There. The imprint of the track — see?”
“Get up.” Her voice was softer. “It may be in your fever, you thought you saw … something. Please. Get up, Mr. Hart.”
He ignored her offered hand and crawled to the edge of the carpet. “There.” He reached under, uncovered the source of the lump. A pine tree, left in the child’s retreat. He held it up to her. “See? Part of the mountains between here and Istambul.”
She took the tree, pressed it against her cheek. She was weeping.
“What did I say? What have I done?” he whispered.
She turned away, gathering her salve, her kit of bandages. Her no nonsense voice was back. “Get dressed now. The valet will be in to help you.”
“I don’t need help, I need —”
“Mr. Hart.” She took his face in her hand, gently, firmly. “There’s a legion of doctors coming this morning, brought in by Mr. Darius Moore.”
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