Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama) (13 page)

“I promise we’ll dance, but first . . .” Bret gazed out at the rolling waves of the bay. There was still time to review the papers again before returning to the party without causing too much gossip. 

He needed to remain relaxed and self-assured after such an unnerving visit by that strange fellow, Caden Hellreich.
Let the facts speak for themselves and maybe then she will see the opportunity that I’m offering.
“Have you had enough time to consider my proposal?”

Gabrielle laughed and shook her head. She took a long drink of her white wine. “Why am I not surprised? Maybe I should be flattered. At least I’ve finally received one after two years, although it’s not the one I expected.”

“You’ve always had a good mind for business. Surely you can convince your father about—”

Gabrielle didn’t let him finish. “If you had retained the ordinary good sense to invest only in things that have already proven their worth, you wouldn’t be coming to your friends with your hat in your hand now.”

“I’m not begging, Gabrielle, and I don’t intend to make a mockery of your feelings.”

Gabrielle sniffed. “And what would you know or care about
those
?” She turned away from him. “To even consider becoming part of this ludicrous venture would be disastrous to any self-respecting person’s reputation.”

“Everything I have to offer you is based on sound business judgment and mounting evidence of solid geological facts.”

Gabrielle raised her sleek eyebrow and smirked. “And whose judgment should I trust? Yours? Or is it those sketchy
facts
and curious anecdotes from complete strangers with reputations I know nothing about?”

“Higgins and Lucas are good men. The best in their fields.”

Gabrielle repeatedly jabbed her finger at his chest. “And how can they prove that, Bret? Just because a man finds a hill with pools of foul water and waxy scum floating on top doesn’t mean you should sign over your family’s life savings to him.”

“I won’t deny the magnitude of the risk but the reward for all of us will be unimaginable.”

“And so will the failure and humiliation. Is that what you would put me through
again
, Bret McGowan?”

He looked away from her face, unable to bear the terrible truth reflected there.

“I … I regret my selfish, inconsiderate behavior of the past and only hope that one day you will forgive me for whatever pain I’ve caused you.” He raised his head, breathing in labored gasps like a humbled servant hoping to solicit his mistress’s favor. “Perhaps that day will be soon when you finally understand what I’m offering to you now,” Bret said at last.

Gabrielle looked back at the open French doors. Her father would be happy now that the band was playing a pleasant, lilting waltz. “There is nothing more you need to tell me.”

Bret stepped toward her and stopped within an arm’s length. “I can’t change what I did, but we can put our sad history behind us. The new century can mean a new life for both of us if we’re willing to take that chance.”

Gabrielle looked at him and took a step back. “There are many chances a woman will have to take whether she likes to or not.”

“Then you know I’m telling the truth.”

“I only know that you believe you are,” she answered in a low intense voice, drawing further away from him. “You always thought you were being cruelly honest for both our benefit, but maybe . . . you were just cruel.”

“Your father is asking for you, Gabrielle.”

Surprised by his voice, Gabrielle twisted around and watched Timothy saunter onto the terrace. It was obvious by his wavering steps that he had decided to tie one on early tonight.

“And isn’t that your favorite waltz?” He cast a tipsy, squint-eyed glance at Bret.

Gabrielle tilted her head toward the ballroom. She smiled. “You’re right. ‘The Spanish Waltz.’” She stepped away from Bret. “Well, my, my, for heaven’s sake what a sight I must be. And I thought only my father turned all weepy eyed when they played those old songs.”

“Then if you would be so kind to grant me the honor.” Timothy extended his hand. “And I can assure you I have been practicing.” He flashed a triumphant grin at Bret.

Bret stepped to her side. “Gabrielle, please, all I ask is for a few more minutes of your time.”

“But then our waltz will be over, Bret, and I fear I will never hear it again.” Gabrielle wiped the tears from the corner of her eye. She took Timothy’s arm and let him escort her back into the ballroom.

Bret stood motionless for a discernible time. How had he failed so completely to preserve anything of worth between them? Not only as a man, but in the deeper, truer sense of two embracing souls who had once shared everything.

He rubbed his perspiring forehead and cursed himself as he repeatedly banged his hand on the veranda railing. He needed to calm his frayed nerves and do it quickly if he hoped to convince Gabrielle’s father. As much as he disliked the elder Caldwell’s method of exploiting the cheap Mexican and Negro labor, Bret could not deny the man’s stature in the city’s business community. 

Things got done in this part of the state because Arley Caldwell could generate the confidence and money needed to get the job done. The seawall was a perfect example of the scope of his influence. Arley wasn’t onboard yet so that meant most of Galveston’s businessmen weren’t either.

Bret coughed sharply. Tremors pricked his arms, setting his teeth on edge. Glancing around to make sure he was still alone, he pulled the brown medicine bottle from his inside jacket pocket. 

He unscrewed the cap and took several sips in quick succession until he couldn’t taste another sweet, syrupy drop. Calmed by the spreading warmth, his cough and shakes subsided. Bret threw the empty bottle away. He closed his eyes for a few moments to collect his thoughts and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

Feeling his confidence return, Bret opened his eyes and stared out upon the endless dream of moonlit waves.

Arley exhaled a plume of pipe smoke. “I understand you’re having some difficulty convincing the likes of Colonel Hayes and Hadlee Foster to invest in your oil drilling gamble over in Beaumont.”

Bret rubbed his tight jaw. “I can guarantee, sir, that this is not an idle lark.” He cleared his throat. “I won’t deny there have been problems with sloughing the sand and clay under the hill, but Mr. Lucas insists that oil exists in the Gulf Coast salt domes. It’s only a matter of—”

“Easy there, Bret.” The older man smiled. “I wanted to see how intense your enthusiasm was for this venture. Anything with such potential always carries enormous risk, but that is precisely what sets us apart from the rest of the world. Isn’t that right, Timothy?”

Arley exhaled his smoke toward Mr. DeRocha.

“Of course, Arley. Certainly, without a doubt.”

“Yes. That’s what makes us different,” Arley continued. “Our willingness to triumph over adversity no matter what the cost.”

Bret’s pulse quickened. “Yes . . . yes, Arley. That’s precisely how I see the situation. The Republic and our great state would never have existed if Sam Houston had thought otherwise.”

The older gentleman nodded and withdrew his pipe. “Many of us believe the new century will be the final proving ground for the unquestioned supremacy of our political and economic ideals.” He pointed the mouthpiece toward Bret’s lapel. “You should have stayed and spoken to Doctor Hellreich after his lecture. He speaks to men like us with a similar vision of the future.”

Bret felt the same uneasiness at the mention of the man’s name. “As long as that vision isn’t clouded by grandiose theories and rhetoric. There’s something unsettling about that gentleman. I’ve made his acquaintance once and I’m afraid to say that was enough.”

“You would think differently if you listened to the man instead of questioning him before you had all the facts,” Timothy DeRocha said with indignation. “And you might start to be less friendly with your hired help. If you paid them less you’d have more money for your investments.”

Bret lowered his gaze on the shorter man. “I’m very careful how I choose my friends and business associates, Timothy—a man’s character is everything. I’d hope that any man would extend me the same consideration. Besides, I don’t have to hear a fool to know—”

“Gentlemen, please, if you don’t mind,” insisted Arley, raising his hands. “I’ve known Doctor Hellreich, Cade, that is, for almost a year now.” He hooked his thumb in his vest pocket. “The doctor and his Society attract many of the well-to-do from all over the country, and if he is not rich, which I personally doubt,” he puffed on his pipe. “His advocates certainly are.”

Bret poured a fresh splash of bourbon and downed half of it with one gulp. He couldn’t afford to let his first impression of the doctor affect his business judgment. Getting off on the wrong foot with someone was an idiotic reason to risk bankruptcy and ruin. If that’s where the money trail was leading, then he was obliged to follow it.

“A man doesn’t have to be a Philadelphia lawyer to see the business opportunities are boundless,” Bret said. “Thank you for your advice, Arley, and you too, Timothy.” He downed the last of his drink. “I will consider it.”

Arley grinned. “You should speak with him, Bret, and listen to what he has to say. I’m certain a good word from Cade would go a long way in securing the risky financing you need. ‘You’d sooner catch a weasel asleep then get another chance like this,’ my daddy use to say.”

Bret looked across the ballroom to the large, oil painting of his father, William, hanging on the far wall. A lone, isolated portrait of a man separated in life as he was in death. “Then your father must have had better sense about these things than me . . . or mine.” Bret glanced at the entrance to the front hallway.

Philip was motioning for him to come over.

“Excuse me gentlemen.” He shook each man’s hand in turn. “But I believe I’m being summoned.”

Bret politely jostled his way up to Philip. “Yes?”

“Sir,” Philip said, touching his brow with the tip of his glove. “Apparently you invited Doctor Hellreich tonight?”

“Yes, but he declined, regrettably.” Bret grinned.

“Ah, I see, sir. Well, the young lady says she’s his niece; a Miss Rebecca Armstrong. Mr. DeRocha has supposedly explained to you that she would be arriving late and would have to leave early. The driver, a Mr. Wallace, escorted her to the door only a few minutes ago and has been instructed to wait.”

“Odd. Neither the doctor nor Timothy mentioned anything about her.” Bret looked back at Timothy, who was still busy, no doubt, trying to ingratiate himself with Arley and Gabrielle, who remained fixed at her father’s side. She refused to return Bret’s smile and turned her back to him. “That’s fine, Philip. If the young lady only wishes to make an appearance.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. McGowan?” Philip asked. “Do you want me to ask her to leave?”

Bret looked back across the ballroom at the glittering swirl of laughter that was his party. The cakewalk show was over and the dancers were returning to their serving duties. Along the walls, guests fell back on stuffed velvet couches and chairs, while others two-stepped about to old-time favorites like ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag.’ Standing back at the desert table, Mr. Caldwell raised his glass to him.

“Mr. McGowan?” Philip tapped him on the shoulder. “She wanted me to ask you if—”

“Where is she, Philip?”

“Ah, there, sir.” He pointed back to the band. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. She wants to sing, Mr. McGowan.”

An enchanting, red-haired woman—her long, shoulder-length tresses flowing in natural waves down the front of her emerald green gown—stood in front of the musicians. From across the ballroom her gaze never left Bret’s and seemed to hold him there with the same intensity as his.

There was a pause while the players looked over to Bret and Philip. The fiddler shrugged his shoulders. Bret nodded.

The fiddler counted in the song with his bow and the rest of the musicians started to play the haunting refrain of a song Bret hadn’t heard since he was a child.

“The years creep slowly by, Lorena. The snow is on the grass again; the sun’s low down the sky, Lorena, the frost gleams where the flowers have been . . .”

Bret listened to the soft, clear lilt of her voice resonating off the marble floor in the hushed silence of the ballroom. On the trembling mouths of older guests he could see creased lips silently singing words from another time; for loves long lost and buried in the ground.

“A hundred months ’twas then flowery May, when up the hilly slope we climbed, to watch the dying of the day and hear the distant church bells chime.”

The candelabras flickered as the night breeze flowed in through the open windows and everywhere the air was scented with the wistful magic of the stars.

Hadlee and Liam approached Bret. “Well done, Bret,” Liam slurred in a drunken whisper. “Exquisite beauty and talent to boot.”

“Where did you find her?” Hadlee added, his breath blowing as many sheets to the wind as his friend. “She’s got the voice of a nightingale.”

Bret shook is head in wonderment. “I . . . I’ve never seen her before. I extended an invitation to Doctor Hellreich and he declined. Philip says she’s the doctor’s niece.”

“The voice of an angel, a real angel,” insisted Hadlee. “Lord, bet if you’d known that fellow had a niece like that, you’d never have left that meeting early.”

“It matters little now, Lorena. The past is in the eternal past; our hearts will soon lie low, Lorena, life’s tide is ebbing out so fast . . .”

Liam raised his glass toward her. “That woman, no—goddess—will have every man in Galveston at her feet after hearing her sing tonight.”

The glittering necklaces around the powdered, craggy necks of the society matrons twinkled and shook as they clapped their hands after the end of the song.

Rebecca Armstrong bowed without smiling, then turned and darted behind the embroidered curtain on the stage.

The ballroom roared with applause and shouts of “Encore, encore!” The fiddler stepped to the edge of the curtain, lifted the fabric, and peered behind it.