Yesterday's Roses (5 page)

Despite herself, Hallie thought of Jake Parrish and her mind screamed its accusations:
Guilty of wife beating. Guilty of unspeakable perversion.

Guilty!

Yet, though her mind condemned him on every count, her heart pleaded eloquently in his defense and every beat proclaimed him innocent.

After two hours of blessed silence, the racket had resumed. Jake groaned and cast a weary glance toward the ceiling, wincing at the all-too-familiar sound of his wife's shrieks. Judging by the high-pitched timbre of her screams, he guessed that Dr. Gardiner had done something to displease her and was now being treated to one of her infamous tantrums.

Glancing up at the mantel clock, he mentally marked the time. If Dr. Gardiner was anything like her long line of predecessors, it would be only a matter of minutes before she abandoned her efforts to tend his wife and fled in horror.

Jake shrugged. Well, there was always Dr. Barnes. In one swift gulp he drained his glass of whiskey and turned his attention to shutting out the noise. After spending months in the army hospital confined to his bed, he'd developed a talent for mentally blocking out the never-ending screams and sobs of his fellow patients, a talent which he had put to good use during these last few weeks.

Now Jake immersed himself in the soothing inner silence of his mind, relaxing slightly as the heat from the whiskey sent a jolt of bracing warmth through his body. The chill of the damp evening fog was rising from the bay, making his leg ache unbearably.

Damn San Francisco and her contrary climate.
Here it was, late May, and Jake wondered if he would ever feel warm again. Shivering, he glanced at the imposing marble fireplace. Though the flames were valiantly trying to chase away the chill, the room still felt cold.

Restlessly tapping his finger against the rim of his glass, he gazed around his library, wondering why it no longer seemed as inviting as it had before the war. Aside from Serena's clamoring, to which he'd grown accustomed, nothing appeared to have changed. Frowning, Jake took a mental inventory, searching for something—anything—that would account for his sudden feeling of disquiet.

In front of the hearth were his favorite, age-softened cordovan leather wing chairs. With their casual, time-worn comfort, they were like a pair of old friends, and Jake had spent many happy hours curled up in their familiar depths, often with Serena on his lap.

Lining the mahogany-shelved walls were his scores of books. Unlike many of the fashionable libraries of the wealthy, who bought their books by the yard for decorative purposes, Jake's library was filled with volumes that had all been thoughtfully selected. A number of them were even showing signs of wear from frequent use.

The imposing oval Hepplewhite desk at which he now sat and where he had made hundreds of decisions, as well as millions of dollars, was still positioned where he could pause to admire the manicured expanse of lawn through the beveled-glass doors. He could remember all the times he had been pulled from deep concentration by the sound of Serena's happy laughter floating on the wind as she entertained her friends from the Wednesday Afternoon Ladies' Mission Society.

Jake stared down at the face reflected in the highly polished surface beneath his hands. The features were familiar, though the expression was foreign. He bent nearer. Were those really his eyes, so haunted and filled with despair? And when had he begun to look so grim … so bitter?

With a groan, Jake buried his face in his hand.
The room hadn't changed; he had.

“Thought you might need some company,” announced a pleasant voice from the doorway. “Looks like I was right.”

Jake didn't bother to look up at the sound of his best friend and business partner's voice. “What makes you say that, Seth?”

“Call me psychic. That gypsy down on Dupont Street told me I was possessed of great powers,” he quipped, squiggling his fingers in the air in a comic imitation of a divining seer. When his friend failed to rise to the bait and continued to stare morosely into the fire, he sighed. “I ran into that incorrigible houseboy of yours down on Sacramento Street. He was hauling an enormous doctor's bag, so I put two and two together. I can't imagine why you keep the man. He's a regular menace.”

“He keeps out the riffraff,” Jake replied. Closing his eyes and wearily tipping his head back against the chair, he amended, “Well, usually.”

Seth Tyler's only reply was a deep chuckle. Unperturbed by his friend's surly mood, he closed the door and strode over to the sideboard, where he paused to study the contents of several cut-crystal decanters. After a moment of serious deliberation, he settled on the same fine, perfectly aged Kentucky whiskey that Jake had been abusing earlier. At home in his surroundings, Seth poured himself a liberal portion of the strong liquid. He took an experimental sip and then grinned, satisfied with his selection.

Throwing an appreciative look in Jake's direction, he proceeded to drape himself casually onto the butter-soft black leather sofa, propping his long legs comfortably over the arm.

The men sat in silence for several minutes, Jake unnerved by Serena's relentless wailing and Seth groping for something to say that would distract his friend from his troubles.

It was Seth who spoke first. “When I met Hop on the street, he was mumbling something about a lady doctor.”

“I have engaged a lady doctor to deliver Serena's baby,” Jake replied, not bothering to open his eyes. “Judging from the infernal racket upstairs, it would seem that she isn't having any better luck with Serena than her male predecessors did.”

Serena Parrish was notorious among the members of San Francisco's medical profession. So violently had she resisted various doctors' efforts to examine her during her pregnancy that, with the exception of the pompous Dr. Barnes, all had refused to tend her a second time.

Jake snorted as a particularly earsplitting howl penetrated the thick library walls. “It sounds like my wife is in rare form this evening. I expect that lady doctor to come flying down the stairs and out the front door any minute now.”

Finally opening his eyes, he glanced despairingly toward his friend, only to exclaim, “Good God, Seth! What the hell is that you're wearing?” His eyes widened incredulously at the intense hue of Seth's modish attire.

Seth picked an imaginary piece of lint from his Chinese blue kerseymere coat. “You like it? I'm told it's the latest thing from London.”

“And you believed it?” exclaimed Jake with genuine disbelief. His friend had become somewhat of a peacock of late, but this was extreme even by Seth Tyler's rather excessive standards. At first his rebellion had been confined to his hair. His belligerent refusal to conform to the neat styles of the day had resulted in the thick, leonine mane that now fell below his wide shoulders. And bad had quickly gone to worse.

If it weren't for Seth's blatant masculinity and the hard, dangerous glint behind his hazel eyes, there probably would have been serious questions raised about his sexual preferences. Still, despite his affected mode of dress, Seth remained a favorite among the ladies. Though he lacked Jake's breathtaking good looks, he had a rugged appeal which had quickened many a heart. It was rare to see Seth without at least one beautiful woman clinging to his arm, and any social event would find him surrounded by a bevy of beauties, listening to his outrageous tales with big, worshipful eyes.

“Wouldn't hurt you to add a dash of color to your own dull wardrobe, you know,” Seth offered amiably, pleased that his colorful attire had temporarily distracted Jake from the situation upstairs. Deciding that a bit of good-natured jesting was in order, he added, “You might be surprised to find how far a few bright garments could go in improving that foul disposition of yours.”

“I hardly think that blue-and-red checkered trousers would do much to bolster my spirits,” groaned Jake, contemplating the article in question with a jaundiced eye.

“Tsk, tsk, Jake. You may have become dull in your old age, but I've never known you to be close-minded.” Seth critically examined Jake's understated yet fashionably cut garments for a moment. Then he teased slyly, “My tailor has a bolt of violet broadcloth that would be just perfect for you.”

“Hmm. Violet broadcloth? Does he have a nice roll of Valenciennes lace for trim?”

“I thought Alençon lace would be more appropriate, but if you insist on Valenciennes …” Seth grinned broadly at the thought of the supremely virile Jake Parrish parading around San Francisco decked out in violet broadcloth and lace frills. At the sound of Jake's rich baritone laugh joining him in his merriment, Seth realized with a sudden tinge of poignancy how much he missed the quick humor of the old Jake.

“Do my ears deceive me?” Seth lightly cuffed the side of his head in mock disbelief. “The somber Jake Parrish actually letting a laugh cross his dour lips?” He sat up and bent forward to peer into his friend's face with feigned concern. “Perhaps I should take it easier on you next time we spar. I gave you a couple of masterful blows to the head last week. It seems as if I might have cracked that thick skull of yours after all.”

Jake smiled at Seth's friendly baiting. Both men knew that before the war, Jake had reigned supreme as the boxing champion at the Olympic Club and Seth had never had a prayer of tumbling him from his throne.

But that was before Jake had been wounded. Now it took almost all his effort just to remain on his feet, much less inflict any real damage. Still, Seth's good-natured heckling was contagious, and Jake laughed. “It would take more than your paltry efforts to crack this stubborn head. Speaking of heads, how did yours feel the next morning?”

“Enlightened.”

“Enlightened? Such as the kind of enlightenment that comes from finally succeeding in luring the luscious Mary Ellen Palmer into your bed?” asked Jake with great interest.

“Enlightenment such as to why Reverend DeYoung is so persistent in his railings against the evils of alcohol. I felt like hell!” The memory was enough to make Seth regard his glass of whiskey with less enthusiasm.

Jake laughed at his friend's pained expression. “Too bad. I was almost looking forward to hearing the tasteless details of your amorous adventures with Mary Ellen.”

“What's this about Mary Ellen?”

“Well, you did mention Miss Palmer during the course of the evening.” A wicked gleam entered Jake's eyes as Seth's face paled. “Actually, you did more than mention her. It seems as if you were intent on banging at her door and dragging her off to your bed. Not, mind you, that she probably would have protested too loudly. I'd guess it would be just the opportunity she's been waiting for. Everyone knows that there is nothing she would like better than to have a reason to trap you in her marriage-hungry grasp.”

Seth groaned. “Lord, I hope you talked some sense into me! The last thing I need is to have Mary Ellen sobbing over her lost virtue and demanding marriage.”

“Rather like the scene she played for Frank Wilson last month?”

“Or the one she so dramatically portrayed for Michael Burris the month before that,” added Seth with a whimsical smirk.

“Thankfully, you were too drunk to drag anyone off to bed—yourself included. The last I saw of you was when you were being led rather unsteadily up to bed by that long-suffering manservant of yours.” Jake grinned at the memory of his friend being hauled up the stairs while singing snatches from a filthy ditty.

“Well, then, let's hear it for the intoxicating effects of fine brandy!” suggested Seth, raising his glass in a mock salute. “And to equally intoxicating women. Speaking of which, what's this about a woman doctor?”

Jake stared at Seth blankly for a second. True to form, Seth had distracted him from his troubles. His friend had a great talent for making him laugh, even in the worst situations. Jake would always be in debt to Seth for the way he had stayed by him in those agonizing days after he had been wounded. When the pain had been wrenching and Jake was sure he couldn't endure another second of the torment, Seth would invariably say or do something outrageous that would draw his mind away from his misery.

“Well? Is she a delectable piece?” A mischievous grin twisted Seth's lips. “Say, you might have her take a look at that leg of yours. Considering where the scar is located, it could turn into a pretty interesting experience. Now that I think about it, I've been having a few pains—”

“She's from the mission,” Jake interjected with a significant lift of his brows.

The loopy grin disappeared from Seth's face, replaced by a look of horrified fascination. “Just what San Francisco needs, another pious, prune-faced old soul-saver to make all our lives hell on earth.”

Jake laughed at Seth's distaste. “Not so bad as all that. She's one of Davinia Loomis's flock and didn't appear to be particularly righteous. She didn't thump her Bible or preach, if that's what you're worried about.”

“But she's prune-faced. Am I right?”

Jake opened his mouth to deny Hallie's prune-faced status, but before he had the chance, Mammy Celine came charging into the library like a bull elephant on a rampage.

“We's got trouble, Mista' Jake. Big trouble,” she blurted out, twisting her apron in agitation.

“What is it this time, Celine? Did Hop steal one of your voodoo charms again?” Jake asked with feigned seriousness. Celine generally reserved the term “big trouble” to apply to Hop Yung's frequent misdemeanors.

“Ain't nothin' like that. It's that Docta' Barnes. He be talkin' to that lady docta' real mean-like. And after she done so good! She done had the Missus actin' all tame. She be brushin' the Missus's hair, talkin' as if everythin' was normal and that Docta' Barnes come chargin' in and starts hollerin'. The Missus, she starts whimperin' and beggin' the lady not ta leave her. There be lots of arguin' up there! The lady be callin' Docta' Barnes a Charlotte Butcher. He be spittin' mad over that!” She chuckled, making it clear which of the opponents she favored.