The Law and Miss Mary (5 page)

Sam nodded. The disquiet was back. He filed away the two pieces of information he had learned from the visit. Thomas had run the steamer line in a careless manner, and James Randolph was hiding something. He had adroitly avoided the invitation to divulge the name of the eastern city of his origin—as had his sister. Perhaps it was time to tip his hand and shake Randolph up a bit, see what fell out into the open.

“I understand.” Sam tugged on his hat and moved to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Randolph. I make it my business to find out about the people who take up residence in St. Louis. And, if in the course of your familiarizing yourself with this business, you find that need for my services, do not hesitate to call upon me.” He dipped his head and walked from the room, leaving James Randolph staring after him.

A steamship’s horn pierced the silence. Another answered. Mary turned onto her back and sighed. She tossed the sheet aside, slipped her feet into her silk slippers and used the brilliant starlight to guide her to the window. Sleep was impossible. She was supposed to be in Philadelphia planning her wedding. Instead, she was at the edge of a wilderness in St. Louis, Missouri, facing an unknown future. How could she sleep when her whole life had gone topsy-turvy?

Her stomach cramped. She pressed her hands against her abdomen and took a long, slow breath to ease the pain of the nervous spasm. What would life hold for her? It was true she would rather be a spinster than some man’s bargain. But that did not mean her desire to love and be loved, to marry and have children, to grow old with a beloved husband beside her was gone. It was all in her heart, and stronger than ever.

Tears welled.
Poor little Miss Mary. She’ll have a hard time findin’ herself a husband, bein’ plain like she is. Now, if she was blessed with the beauty of Miss Sarah…
Oh, how true her nanny’s words had proved to be.

Mary blinked the tears away and lifted her face toward the dark sky, the same questions that had plagued her all her growing-up years swirling in her mind. Why had God made her tall and thin and dark-haired? And, what was worse, given her the bold, forthright nature that was off-putting to men? Why had He not made
her
small and blond like her sister, with a golden beauty and gentle sweet nature that drew men the way nectar drew bees? The way Victoria drew Winston. Why did God not love her as much as He did others?

The familiar hurt squeezed her chest, made it hard to draw her breath. She opened the sash, then went to her knees, crossed her arms on the sill and rested her chin on them to catch any movement of air. Muffled sounds of revelry, from the direction of the levee, floated in on a warm breeze. A steamboat blasted its whistle. Another answered. The noise of the levee continued day and night. And it was all so strange and new.

Fear nibbled at the last shreds of her composure. The tears she had held back slipped down her cheeks. What had she done? Was her decision to leave Philadelphia a right or wrong one? Should she have swallowed her hurt and her pride and accepted Winston as her husband even though she knew it was only her father’s money he wanted? Was he her last chance for a family of her own? Was the pretense of love better than a life alone?

“Twelve o’clock and all is well.”

The words came, muted but distinct. She grasped on to them like a lifeline. Twelve o’clock—the beginning of a new day. And all is well. Pray God it might be so.

Sam leaped back from the slashing blade, grabbed the mountain man’s thick wrist and twisted. The double-edged skinning knife clattered to the floor. He grabbed a fistful of the cursing drunk’s buckskin shirt and shoved him toward his deputy. “Take him to jail and let him sleep off his meanness. I’ll run him out of town in the morning.” He picked up the weapon and walked outside.

A roar of voices calling for whiskey or beer erupted behind him. Music started playing. The din mixed with the noise coming from the other saloons, the lapping of river water, the churning of paddle wheels and the blasting of steam whistles to make St. Louis’s own peculiar sound of revelry.

“Twelve o’clock and all is well.”

Twelve o’clock. Time to go home and let his lieutenant and the night guards take over.

Home. Sam snorted, adjusted his hat and started up the road. Home was a room in Mrs. Warren’s boardinghouse on Walnut Street, handy to the jail and courthouse. True, it was a vast improvement over the broken-down hovels he had lived in as a kid. Or the open fields, hay mows and sheds that had been his only shelter after he had run away from his drunk of a father. But it was far from what he had planned. Still, he was getting close. He had made some smart investments that were swelling his bank account. And now, he was gaining entrance to St. Louis society by courting the mayor’s daughter. Yes, he was getting close.

He turned onto Walnut, glanced up at the dark, star-littered sky and smiled with grim satisfaction.
Remember when I was seven years old and I begged You for some warm clothes for Daniel and Ma and me, God? Remember how I begged You for a house without holes in the walls and roof so we could be warm and dry? For somebody to come and help us?
A hard knot of resentment twisted in his stomach.
Remember how Danny and Ma sickened and died from the cold? I told You then I would make it without You. That I would be “somebody” someday, and no one would sneer at me ever again. Remember, God? Well, keep watching, because I am almost there.

He threw a last disdainful look at the sky, took the porch steps two at a time, pulled open the door and went inside.

Chapter Six

“M
y, it is warm!” Mary dabbed her damp forehead, tucked her handkerchief into her pocket and glanced toward James. “I keep thinking of how lovely and cool it always is at home, even on the hottest of days.”

“Hmm…”

“An astute comment.”

James lowered the newspaper he was reading and gave her a sheepish look over the top of it. “Sorry, Mary. I did not mean to ignore you.” He set the paper aside. “I know what you are saying. I have thought of home a time or two myself today. I did not realize St. Louis was so much warmer than Philadelphia.” His lips curved in a rueful smile of commiseration. “Randolph Court stays cool because of its large size. I fear there is no hope of that in this small cottage.”

“How cheering you are.”

He chuckled.

Mary stuck her tongue out at him like when they were children and rose from the settee. “Do you suppose one gets used to the heat?” She lifted the strands of hair stuck to her moist neck, tucked them back into the loose knot on the crown of her head and sighed. “I think I will go outside and see if there is at least a breath of a breeze.” She glanced his way. “Would you care to join me?”

“I would be delighted.”

“Delighted?” She drifted by his chair and tapped his shoulder. “I think not. Agreeable perhaps. You would be
delighted
if I were a certain blond young lady named Charlotte Colburn.” She threw him a smile over her shoulder and headed for the door. “But, alas, Charlotte is home in Philadelphia and you must content yourself with my company. At least for the nonce.”

James grinned and shrugged into his jacket. “Charlotte is pleasant, but there was no understanding between us. And I am certain I shall meet equally pleasant girls here in St. Louis. And, while I do not deny I enjoy being with a young lady, my dear sister, I do not esteem their company more highly than yours. Only…differently.”

“Indeed.”

“Do I detect skepticism?” His grin widened. “For shame, Mary. I shall prove what I say is true.” He lifted her hat from the hook on the tree and held it out to her. “Shall we go explore our new town?”

“What a lovely idea!” Mary took the wide-brimmed straw hat, knotted the filmy ties beneath her chin and moved out onto the porch. She waited until he closed the door, then stepped down onto the brick path and walked to the gate. “Which way shall we go?”

James pushed opened the gate and motioned toward the cobblestone street forming the right border of their fenced-in corner lot. “I suggest we walk up Market Street, away from the river. It is coming on to evening, and I think it might be best to avoid the levee area.”

“Yes. That might be wise. I have no desire to run into the ‘unsavory elements’ Captain Benton spoke of. Or the good captain, either, for that matter.”

“Mary…”

She shot him a look. “Do not use that reproving tone, James. I know we are to be forgiving. But Ben is a
child.
The captain could have shown him mercy.”

“He is a police officer. It is his job to arrest those who break the law.”

“Yes, that is what he told me. And if the captain had had his way, that is exactly what would have happened to Ben.” She stopped and faced her brother. “Do
you
think Ben belongs in jail?”

“Of course not, but you cannot hold it against the man for performing his duty.”

Mary stared at him a moment, then turned with a swish of her long skirts and resumed walking. “My head tells me you are right, James. But my heart refuses to be sensible about the matter.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Homeless children do not belong in a jail. They belong in an orphanage—like Aunt Laina’s. Alas, there is no orphanage in St. Louis. Nonetheless, the matter is well settled—despite the captain’s lack of compassion.”

They reached the corner and veered right. A steamboat’s whistle blasted a strident note, then another. Mary glanced at James and laughed. “I believe I am becoming accustomed to the constant blare of those whistles. That time I only flinched instead of nearly jumping out of my skin.”

He grinned down at her. “I am sure in a few more days we will not notice them at all. Or the Indians and mountain men. Though it is still something of a shock when one walks into the office and books passage on our ships. Particularly since they often pay their fare with
pelts.
”

“Truly? I cannot imagine.” Mary stopped and looked up at him. “How do you know what a pelt is worth?”

A frown creased his forehead. “I have no notion as to their value. I am learning to judge that. Meanwhile, I let Goodwin handle all such transactions while I watch. It is quite an art, bartering. The Indians are quite skilled at it.”

Mary started walking again. “Have you found any information that points to whomever was skimming the profit from the line?”

“Not yet. Everything is too new—such as this trade in pelts. But I shall. I am watching Goodwin. There is something about the man I do not trust. It would not be hard for him to take advantage of my ignorance, so I am secretly keeping a careful accounting of all transactions, apart from the company records he keeps.”

“And if you discover he is stealing from the line?”

“I shall have Captain Benton arrest him.”

Mary snorted. “You mean if the good captain is not too busy arresting children.” She turned her head and looked forward. The sun rode low in the sky, the bottom of the blazing orange orb hidden by the leafy canopy of a tree atop the rise they were climbing. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of light and looked across the street at an imposing two-story brick building with a clock tower, topped by a pillared dome, in the center of the roof. A large park surrounded the building. Mary gave James a sidelong look. “Shall we cross over and see what that building is?”

He nodded and took hold of her elbow. They waited for a buggy to pass, then hurried across the street and walked up the wide brick pathway to climb the steps. The cooler air in the shade of the portico felt wonderful. Mary removed her hat, fanned herself with its wide brim and watched James stride over to a brass plaque on the wall beside the handsome double doors straight ahead.

“This is the courthouse, Mary. Rather small, I should think, for all—”

One of the doors opened and an elegantly dressed young woman stepped out onto the portico, almost running into James.

“Oh!” Light brown, delicately arched brows lifted and big, blue eyes opened wide as beautifully shaped lips parted in surprise. “Forgive me, sir. I was not paying attention to my path.”

James smiled and made a polite bow. “Not at all, miss. The fault was mine. I should not have crowded the doorway.”

“You are too kind, sir.” Long lashes fluttered down over the blue eyes as the woman smiled, revealing dimples in cheeks tinged with a hint of pink.

Mary’s chest tightened. The woman was petite, blond and beautiful. The same as Victoria. Everything
she
was not. She stopped fanning, raised her hat to her head and settled it a little forward to hide as much of her face as possible. The wide, gauzy ties she formed into a large bow to hide her small, square chin. There was nothing she could do about her height. Or her slenderness.

She glanced down, surreptitiously bunched the fabric of her long skirt at her narrow waist to make her frame look fuller, then looked back toward the woman and froze. So did the tall, blond man holding the door. Their gazes met. The heat of a blush spread across her cheeks, but Samuel Benton did not so much as flicker an eye. He only gave a polite nod, though she knew he did not miss the tiniest imperfection in her appearance, or her pathetic attempt to hide them.

Mary stood rooted in place, acutely aware of the sheen on her flushed face in comparison to the cool perfection of the beautiful, petite blonde. She felt like an ugly giant, but not for anything would she betray her discomfort to the woman giving her a keen, measuring look from under those ridiculously long lashes. Or to the captain, either. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and pasted a polite smile on her face.

Samuel Benton stepped forward. “Good evening, Miss Randolph…Mr. Randolph. May I present Miss Stewart.” He looked down at the young woman. “Miss Stewart, Miss Randolph and her brother are two of St. Louis’s newest citizens. Mr. Randolph has come to town to manage the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line.”

James gave a polite bow. “Your servant, Miss Stewart.”

Mary smiled and dipped her head, wishing she were seated. She was at least three inches taller than the woman. “Good evening.”

Miss Stewart smiled in response, showing her dimples off to good advantage. “I shall have to tell my father of your arrival in our fair city, Mr. Randolph. I am certain he will want to meet with you. He is the mayor of St. Louis and very solicitous of its businesses.” Her gaze shifted, chilled. “And my mother will want to make your acquaintance, Miss Randolph. She heads many of the charity and cultural events of St. Louis.” She turned to Samuel Benton and gave him a dazzling smile. “You were going to see me home, Captain Benton?”

“Of course, Miss Stewart.” He glanced in their direction. “Good evening, Miss Randolph…Mr. Randolph.” He offered Miss Stewart his arm, then escorted her down the stairs and out to Market Street.

Mary stared after them a moment, then reached up and yanked undone the huge bow hiding her chin, cross with herself for allowing Miss Stewart’s beauty to upset her.

“Shall we go on with our exploring, Mary?”

She took a breath and retied the bow…smaller. “Yes, of course, James.” She forced a smile and tried not to think of how her heart had faltered when the captain’s gaze had met hers, or of how lovely Miss Stewart had looked beside the captain, as James took her elbow and they descended the steps together.

It was no use. Thoughts kept tumbling around in her head breaking her concentration. Mary sighed, put down her pen and lowered the wick in the oil lamp until the flame sputtered and died. She would finish the letter to her parents tomorrow.

The wood chair creaked softly as she rose from the writing desk. A slight breeze rippled the fabric of her dressing gown as she walked to the open window. At least it had finally cooled off a little. That would make sleeping more pleasant. If only she could sleep.

Faint sounds of St. Louis’s revelry drifting in the window were drowned out by the loud, persistent hum of a hungry mosquito hovering around her ear. She swatted the insect away and looked out into the moonlit night. Had Captain Benton spent the evening sitting on the mayor’s front porch wooing Miss Stewart? Was he there still?

Mary frowned, leaned against the window frame and let the night breeze flow over her. Why was she unable to erase the couple from her mind? She was not normally so weak-willed. It must be the strong resemblance Miss Stewart bore to Victoria Dearborn that had her so…so…agitated. That, and the look of admiration in Captain Benton’s eyes as he gazed down at the petite blonde. It was the same way Winston Blackstone had looked at Victoria.

Mary sighed, then shoved away from the window and walked to the four-poster bed. She longed to walk about, but the room was too small to pace. She sat on the edge of the bed, tugged a pillow from under the woven coverlet and reclined against it. The mosquito found her. Another joined it. She swatted them away, rose to her knees, yanked the gauzy bed hangings free of the bedposts and pulled them into place, making certain the edges lapped. That would keep the annoying insects away. If only there were a curtain she could pull across her mind to keep the unwelcome thoughts and images away.

She snorted and batted her eyelashes, dipped her head and looked up, ever so coyly, through them, as Miss Stewart had done while talking to the men. It was nauseating! Miss Stewart was an outrageous flirt, who was obviously dissatisfied lest she capture the admiration of every man she came in contact with. Why, Miss Stewart was flirting with James right under the captain’s eyes! Why were men blind to such machinations?

Mary fluffed her pillow and sank down against it.
How would it feel to have a man look at you the way Winston looked at Victoria? The way Captain Benton looked at Miss Stewart? As if you were beautiful and delicate and precious? How would it feel to have a man love you?

The stars shining beyond the filmy fabric blurred. Mary swiped the tears from her cheeks, grabbed another pillow and flopped over onto her side, hugging the fluffy softness close against her constricted chest. This loneliness was her portion in life. God had not seen fit to make her beautiful in the eyes of men. There was no sense in wishing for things that would never be.