Masked by Moonlight (13 page)

M
atthew seemed confused. “Have you not just come from—”

Georgia raised both eyebrows, hoping to cue him to follow her lead. “No,” she said, overenunciating and nodding almost imperceptibly to the crowd behind her, “I’ve been
hoping
for cake all day and had
none.”

Matthew glanced at her, cast his gaze to the baked atrocity on the table, then looked back at her. She gave him her most blatant “play along” expression.

“Of course,” he finally said, only barely hiding a laugh. “And here you were saying to me just yesterday how much you liked…” he chose his description carefully “…green cake. How very fortunate for you.”

“Fortunate for
you,
you’ve come in time to join us,” she said, nearly laughing at the situation. She was certain he was no more enamored with the idea of eating such a cake than she. She was also certain he’d play along in heroic proportions rather than disappoint such an endearing audience.

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes darkening to mean any of a thousand things. “And how very…green…a cake it is. I
must
have a piece before Reverend Bauers and I attend to urgent business.”

Did he have urgent business with Reverend Bauers? Or was that merely a strategic improvisation? He was holding something behind his back. Either way, she envied his alibi, for she had nothing more urgent than a role of uncut bandages to save her from so green a cake.

“But no business more urgent than this,” he declared, producing a lovely bouquet of lilies. Delicate yellow lilies the color of lemon cake. “Since I missed our earlier…appointment. Happy birthday, Miss Waterhouse.”

She took the flowers from him. Two of the older girls cooed and poked gentle fingers at the blooms. “They are delightful, Mr. Covington. Thank you so very much.” As she said his full name, his request to call him otherwise echoed like a vibration through her chest. “Do sit down.”

“From the look on your face—” Reverend Bauers put the book he was holding back on the shelf “—you’re up to something. And I daresay it’s more than providing Miss Waterhouse with a birthday bouquet.”

Matthew pretended surprise. “Me? However could you say something like that?”

The clergyman leaned forward and whispered, “Oh, a recent event involving agitated chickens.”

He stepped back with an elaborate bow. “Well, my good Reverend, you have me there. But poultry aside, we have a bit of work to do if a certain hero is to give another Easter gift to his fair city.”

Bauers’s expression grew serious. “I’ve given thought to that, Covington. I don’t think it would be proper to do anything else near Easter. It is a holy season, and given to contemplation and sacrifice, not theatrics. I’d much rather see you at our Good Friday service than out conducting heroics.
Very
much rather.”

Matthew should have known it would come to this. Sooner or later, the good reverend would try and drag him into a church service, especially at Easter. After all the man had done to aid him, did Matthew really have grounds to refuse? “I’m not at all sure,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, mostly because he couldn’t think of a stronger retort.

“No one needs you to be sure. We just need you to be here.” The clergyman raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have other plans?”

Other plans. He had no holiday plans. While he had somehow expected the Waterhouses to extend an Easter invitation, he really had no basis to expect such a thing. At the moment, it looked as if he would be spending his Easter with Thompson in his room. Or eating alone in the Palace dining room.

“Come now, Matthew,” the reverend said, using his Christian name for the first time—intentionally, Matthew guessed. “Unless Stuart Waterhouse is planning to spirit you elsewhere, everyone you could call friend will be at the service here—including Miss Waterhouse. And me. And, if you must know, a couple of young men who skewered you not too long ago and have since repented.”

Reverend Bauers was pulling out all stops and brooking no refusal. What had Matthew’s father once said to him?
It does you no good to start a fight you can’t win.
Matthew sighed. “Very well then, what time should I be here?”

Reverend Bauers clasped both of Matthew’s shoulders. “I knew you’d come round.”

“And how did you know that?”

With a wink, the reverend nodded toward the heavens.

Egad,
thought Matthew,
that’s the first time I’ve been in a room with one other person and been outnumbered.

Matthew was delighted to discover Georgia was still at Grace House when he finished—if one ever truly finished—with Reverend Bauers. He’d planned to give her the flowers in relative privacy, not amidst the giggling pack of children. Still, it had been pleasant enough to catch her eye here and there in the chaotic conversation, to sneak a glimpse of her admiring the flowers as she showed them to the girls around the table. He had pleased her, and he liked that.

Which was, of course, not helpful. He must return home to England when his business was completed, and he knew in his bones that England would never suit her. Still, Matthew seemed unable to squelch the impulse to make her happy. To, when he was honest with himself, “rescue” her from the apathy of her surroundings. And that had always been Matthew’s vice: rescuing even when no rescue was needed.

Even if it meant ingesting the strangest concoction to ever be called “cake.” As he recalled the green-gray dessert they’d shared, he wondered if Georgia’s stomach had turned over as many times in the last hour as his had. She did look a little peaked when he found her putting away the last of the bandages in the storeroom. It did not escape his notice that the lilies lay on the table beside her.

“Have you fully recovered from your party?” he asked as he leaned in the storeroom doorway.

She gave a lopsided grin and put her hand to her stomach. “I’m not quite sure. They did a most…enthusiastic…job, didn’t they? I’m worried that our poor cook may never recover from the experience.”

Endearing.
That was the word he’d give to her expression. She looked so full of affection for this place and these people that she’d gladly have swallowed frogs. For the first time he admitted to himself how envious he was of that affection. “I’m worried myself,” he said, trying not to wonder if she would put her tender hand to his forehead if he pleaded ill. “I hope you won’t be offended if I admit to preferring the cake at the Palace.”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “Not at all.”

Matthew came into the room and nodded at the bandages. “Still working? Haven’t you celebrations to attend to? Ones involving
actual food?”
He regretted the question the moment it left his lips. What if she had no celebrations planned? What if lunch with Stuart was the most she received on her birthday? It stung him that he’d asked so pointed a question without thinking.

“I’ll have a lovely dinner with my brother. Cook always makes my favorites. And I have many plans for Easter to pull together, so I’ll be quite busy.”

Matthew wondered if being born on Easter wasn’t really the blessing Stuart made it out to be. The feast moved every year, sliding in and out of the path of Georgia’s birthday, it was true. But to Matthew it seemed Easter was yet another force determined to overshadow this extraordinary woman. His own mother spent days elaborately celebrating her birthday—and demanding others do the same. Did everyone brush aside Georgia’s birthday because it fell too near to Easter? Did she do anything other than pause for a few slices of cake before resuming rolling bandages and seeing to her household? She deserved better.

He decided on a birthday present of another kind. “Bauers’s convinced me to come back Friday. I thought you’d like to know.”

She blinked at him for a moment before she registered his meaning. When she did, she put down the bandages and turned to face him fully. “For Good Friday services? Oh, yes, Matthew, I am delighted to know.”

She had called him Matthew without thinking about it. Her immediate blush told him so. Which meant that she had been using that name in her thoughts. Which meant she had been thinking about him. A jolt went through him.

“The service is beautiful here,” she said too quickly, as if to cover up the admission, “and quite different from what I imagine you’re used to. I always find it a very moving experience.” Her gaze dropped back to the bandages. “I’ve always wanted Stuart to come, but have never been able to convince him. I’m so glad Reverend Bauers has had more success with you.”

She was oblivious of her own strength. She saw Stuart’s refusal as a reflection on her, instead of his own stubborn nature. Was she unaware that the prospect of seeing her again was half the reason Matthew had consented to Reverend Bauers’s persuasion? Was she so blind to her qualities that these people at Grace House celebrated? Instead, focusing on the many who dismissed her? How was it she held such calm inner strength without even realizing it? How did she persevere in the face of a world that seemed to pay her so little attention?

He realized he was staring at her.

He realized he did not want to stop, nor to hide what he was certain showed in his eyes. It was doomed, what he felt for her at that moment, what he’d been feeling for days, if not from the first. It could come to no good end for either of them. And yet he could no more hold it back than he could halt the tide that would carry him back to England.

“Stuart is a fool to decline,” he said quietly. He wanted to hit himself immediately. Had she not asked from the first that they not spend time discussing her brother? Was Matthew such a coward that he could only couch his hints at affection in Stuart’s actions? “I’m too glad to come and see what you hold so dear,” he said with more strength. “I would consider it an honor to escort you to the service.”

She knew. He saw it in her eyes. No, she wasn’t unaware of her effect on him. She feared it, just as he did—perhaps far more than he did. But she knew. Even if he couldn’t be certain she’d known it before now, even if she’d only suspected it when he’d kissed her hand yesterday, here, now, she
knew
. It seemed as if a cannon went off in his chest. “Please…Georgia…allow me the honor.”

It was a daring assumption, to use her first name without her permission, but he seemed unable to stop himself. She startled just a little bit at his boldness, but there was much more than surprise in her eyes. There was a tiny, fragile joy, a careful pleasure, that fastened itself around his heart.

“We’ll…we’ll see,” she stammered quietly.

It was enough for now.

G
eorgia was finishing up some sewing that evening when she heard Stuart’s tenor ringing through the halls.

She put down her work and sighed. Of course. Well, it was her own fault. She’d thought she’d penned a poignant episode of the Bandit’s adventures for the Good Friday edition. She hadn’t for a moment considered that she’d now employed one of the most famous running jokes of
The Pirates of Penzance
when she’d made the Bandit an orphan. She’d given the story to Stuart when they met for her birthday lunch. An episode in which readers discover the Bandit’s parents are dead, which, by definition, made him an orphan. Stuart’s beloved Gilbert and Sullivan pirates never harm any orphan, and are hilariously astounded when all their victims instantly “claim” to be orphans. “An orphan boy”—how had she not seen it? She was astounded he’d waited this long to come home and tease her.

It would be a long evening, even with a fine birthday meal. From now until the episode’s appearance on Friday—and perhaps for weeks thereafter—the chorus would be endlessly sung to her, Georgia had no doubt.

She heard her brother’s steps coming into the parlor, accompanied by a rousing chorus,
“‘For he is an orphan boy, hurrah for the orphan boy!’”
Stuart’s blond head popped into the room from around the corner
. “And it sometimes is a useful thing to be an orphan boy!’”

Georgia looked up from the mound of cloth in her lap. “Most amusing, Stuart.”

“And how are you, my dear orphan sister?”

It had not struck her that she and Stuart were orphans, as well. Not that she didn’t know it—especially today, her birthday. But she always thought of it in terms of Stuart’s phrase “we’re all we have in the world.” The term “orphan” seemed so much colder, despite the fun Gilbert and Sullivan had with it.

“Did you have a nice afternoon at the Grace House after our lunch?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” She smiled at the memory of the ominously green cake. Reverend Bauers had said the most beautiful prayer over it. It had tasted more like medicine than confection, but she’d made a spectacle of herself complimenting the children for their efforts. She was only outdone by Matthew Covington, whose outlandish string of superlatives reduced everyone to laughter by the end. It was truly a delightful, if not delicious, celebration.

Her brother looked puzzled. “I still say it’s an odd way to celebrate your birthday. Ripping bandages.”

How wrong he could be about some things, for so smart a man! Her work at Grace House was so much more than ripping bandages. These people were as much her family as Stuart. She could think of no finer way to celebrate her life than to do the things that gave her joy. And Grace House always gave her joy. The fact that Matthew had been there had given her great joy, as well—even though it felt dangerous to admit it.

She had tried not to be disappointed when he did not appear at the Palace as she and Stuart had lunch—and more lemon cake. Instead, she had attempted to reassure herself that it was just as well not to nurture that friendship. To remind herself how foolish her growing affection was.

He felt something for her. She knew it, could feel it in how he’d looked at her when he said he was coming to Grace House on Friday.

He was coming to the church service.

He wanted to come with her.
With her.
Did he realize what that meant to her?

The lilies he had given her, now standing in a crystal vase on the parlor table, had not left her side all afternoon.

She shared none of this with Stuart.

“I enjoyed my afternoon immensely, Stuart. And so did you, from the look on your face.”

Stuart swept the needlework off of her lap and pulled her to her feet. “My look has nothing to do with me. It has to do with you. With your birthday present. I’ve come up with the most marvelous gift for you, Peach.”

Georgia often felt a mild sense of alarm when Stuart got that expression on his face. “And what is that?”

“I’m going to throw you a ball.”

“A ball? For my birthday?” Georgia felt the room shift a little under her feet. It was not a pleasant sensation.

“Well, not exactly a birthday ball. It’s a little late to pull something like that off on a grand enough scale.”

A grand enough scale? She furrowed her brow.

“A great big ball. Isn’t it a fine idea?” He didn’t wait for her answer before adding, “But it’s not just any ball, Peach.”

“What do you mean?”

He dropped her hands and crossed his arms across his chest like a conquering major general. “I’m going to throw a Bandit Ball. I’m going to throw you a ball in a few weeks and we’re going to invite the Black Bandit to show his face. You’re going to meet the man who’s been bringing your fantasy to life, Peach. He’ll never know it’s you, but you’ll get to know it’s him. You’ll meet your Bandit. Are you pleased?”

Georgia gulped in a breath. “I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what to say.”

Stuart pulled her into a waltz. “Say the only thing you ought to say—yes!”

“I cannot imagine where he got this wild idea to throw a Bandit Ball.” Georgia pushed a cart full of reading primers as she and Sister Charlotte walked through the convent school a few days later. The convent was donating some educational materials to Grace House, and Georgia was only too glad to have another opportunity to visit Sister Charlotte. “It’s a dreadful idea, don’t you think?”

Charlotte selected another book from the shelf behind her and added it to the cart. “Why, not at all. I think it’s a grand idea. For any number of reasons.”

Georgia’s spirits deflated. Was she the only person who thought this a poor idea? Did anyone care what
she
thought of a ball proposed as
her
birthday present? “And those grand reasons are?”

Charlotte pushed open a supply closet door. “First of all, you’ll get to meet your Bandit under the most advantageous conditions. He has no idea of your affections for him, but because of your status as Stuart’s sister he’ll be bound to pay attention to you.”

Charlotte still had no idea that Georgia penned the Bandit’s adventures. No one knew the truth, and it was going to stay that way. If Charlotte—or anyone—merely thought her interest in the Bandit was because of Stuart, or if they persisted in their belief that Stuart was really George Towers, then that was fine with Georgia. It made things infinitely easier. “True.”

“You’ll get to see the man up close,” she continued, selecting three more books from a narrow wooden shelf, then adding some small slates and a ceramic container of stubby pencils, “not hiding behind the costume and the legend. You have no idea how illuminating it can be to see a legendary man up close. Some of them grow more compelling the nearer they get. Others, well—” she erupted into a chuckle “—let us just say they pale under scrutiny.”

Georgia took the supplies and stacked them on the cart with a dubiously raised eyebrow.

“Oh, I know of what I speak. You may find the fastest antidote to your infatuation might be spending ten minutes in close proximity to the man.” Charlotte handed over the last of the books and dusted off the front of her habit. “The stories I could tell! The heroes I could bring down.”

As outlandish as it sounded, it made Georgia wonder about Charlotte’s late husband, Robert Brownstone. What kind of man had finally won Charlotte’s heart? What had he done? How had he risen victorious over so many heroic characters?

Georgia was drawn out of her thoughts by the waving of a pencil in front of her face. “Really, dear, you must stop drifting off like that. It hides your intellect.” The nun waved to a young priest coming down the hallway. “Father David, would you please see to it that these supplies are delivered to Grace House?”

“Yes, Sister.” Off went priest and cart.

“Now,” continued Charlotte, “back to the business at hand. You’re going to invite your other man—the real-life man—to the ball, are you not?”

“Goodness. I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t even know if he’ll still be in San Francisco.” Distant shouts heralded the letting out of girls from class elsewhere in the building.

“This will give him reason to extend his visit,” said Charlotte. “Have you seen him since our last conversation? Have you revised your opinion of him in any way?”

Georgia felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “As a matter of fact, I have.” Carefully, without mentioning any names, places or other identifying details, she told Charlotte the story of the tea and cake and her birthday flowers.

“Matthew Covington? The man is
Matthew Covington?
”