Frail Blood (8 page)

"Not necessarily marriage," he finished for her. "I
see." He was silent for another several miles during which Emma wondered
if perhaps he really did understand her position. And wouldn't that be strange?

At last they turned down the road that led to her parents'
palatial home on the American River. Malachi leapt from the carriage and handed
her down from the buggy, holding her gloved hand a moment longer than
necessary.

When she looked up into his eyes, he added a final comment,
his face a sheet of candor that made her believe they'd reached a momentary
understanding. "Well, we must all hope that the 'important something' you
wish to do with your life is more significant than ladies' fashions and tea
parties."

At first she believed he was teasing her again, but the
clear approbation in his voice convinced her otherwise. Was he challenging her,
she wondered, as he escorted her to the front door? Her fingers still tingled
from his touch and she hid a smile beneath the wide brim of her hat.

Malachi Rivers was a compelling man.

Chapter 8

"O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men
daily do, not knowing what they do!"

–
Much Ado About Nothing

Unfortunately, the rest of the Sabbath spiraled downward
from the moment they crossed the threshold into the Knight family mansion.

"Miss Emma." Horace intoned the salutation as if
it were a royal proclamation. "Mr. Rivers, may I take your ha— ?" The
dour-faced butler stuttered to a halt, perhaps the only time Emma had ever seen
the man flummoxed.

Emma's father greeted them from the edge of the spacious
marble-floored foyer, his posture military straight. He wore a
handsomely-fitted black tail coat and trousers with a white waistcoat and bow
tie above a stiff winged-collar shirt.

Her father nodded toward his only child, hardly more than a
bending of the neck a fraction of an inch. "Emma," he said, "You
look pale."

Emma refrained from casting her eyes heavenward and made do
with placing a brief kiss on her father's dry cheek, a demonstration of
affection insured to irritate him further. "Father, you look ... quite
healthy."

Franklin Knight shot his cuffs one at a time, displaying
discrete diamond links in a subtle demonstration of his position as one of the
wealthiest farmers in the San Joaquin Valley. "You're late," he said
before turning on his heel and preceding his guests into the formal sitting
room to the right of the foyer.

Emma refused to scurry after him. She took her time handing
Horace her outer attire, all the while aware of their guest's silent questions,
apparent in the lift of a single brow.

"Mother." Emma gestured toward Rivers. Her mother
sat on a Hepplewhite chair, her blue gown bright against the shield-shaped
chair back. "You remember Mr. Rivers."

"Of course. Do sit down, please. Would you like a
drink? Brandy?"

Her father stood behind her mother, his face a flat mask of
disinterest.

Emma took a seat angled toward her mother on a rococo arm
chair upholstered in an intricate rich blue design that nearly matched Mr. Ri –
Malachi's eyes. He took the matching chair opposite her, stretching his long
legs out in front of him.

He glanced around the room, no doubt taking in the opulence
that she'd grown up amid. "No, thank you, ma'am," he drawled, the words
drawn out like a nineteenth-century cowboy.

Emma darted him a cautionary look. "Father, Mr. Rivers
has his law office in Placer Hills quite near the courthouse."

Father nodded, his eyes narrowing at the casual slouch of Malachi
on the elegant chair.

"Papa owns properties and businesses to the north as
well as the farmland to the south of us," Emma said. More wealth than any
single person ought to possess, she thought.

"Really?" That familiar, amused smile played
around Malachi's lips, as if he were privy to a joke that none of them
understood. "How fortunate for you."

Although the words were spoken to her father, Malachi's eyes
trailed to Emma, nearly accusatory in their piercing stare. She willed herself
not to squirm and set her jaw tightly, lifting her chin. How dare he judge her!

It wasn't her fault her father was so damned rich.

Within fifteen minutes of the introductions and casual
preliminary conversation, her mother rang the bell for the serving of dinner. By
the time they'd entered the formal dining room, the serving girls stood at
either end of the table, their starched aprons sparkling against their black
uniforms.

As usual Papa occupied his chair at the far end of the heavy
oak table as if he were a captain at the helm of his ship. Mama sat at the
opposite end, erect and regal as any queen, and in the long space between them
Emma stared into the enigmatic face of Mr. Rivers opposite her.

Thank God, Stephen who'd arrived late, sat to her left,
nearest her father. His presence alone made the ordeal bearable.

The hurried, but efficient movements of the two serving
girls occupied the silence as they produced each dinner course. And then began
the test of patience as her mother's admonitions screeched like a thousand
violins in Emma's ears.

"Jenny, not there, careful with the tureen!

"Margaret, must you spill, clumsy girl!

"The silver service is out of order. Again."

Mama closed her eyes briefly as if invoking heavenly
intercession for the misfortunate of having such incompetent servants.

"Sorry, mum," murmured Jenny, her voice quavering,
although Mama had curtailed her criticism by half.

Emma smiled at the two girls, hardly more than children, and
flashed back with unerring clarity to being eight years old again in this
house, condemned to the nightly prison of the family dining experience and her
mother's railing.

"Thank you, Margaret," Emma murmured as the girl
ladled soup into her bowl.

She felt the tightness of her flesh against her cheekbones
and bit her lip. Glancing up, she intercepted the shifting mood on Mr. Rivers'
face – from amusement to puzzlement and then sad understanding.

Any moment now, Papa would begin chastising Mama in his
hard, cold voice. No, it wasn't funny at all, this farce of a marriage between
the two persons who'd given birth to her. But she would not have Mr. Rivers'
pity. She dipped her spoon into the bowl and glared at him, silently daring him
to feel sorry for her.

"Mr. Rivers," Mama asked during the main course, "would
you like more lamb? Jenny," she ordered, "don't keep our guest
waiting."

"No, thank you, ma'am," he answered quietly. "But
the dinner is delicious."

"Well, Cook is sufficient, and the service adequate at
best," Mama complained. "But what can one expect here in the west. It's
hardly like Boston or New York, now is it?"

"Mary," Papa corrected her, clear criticism in his
voice low, steely, "Margaret and Jenny will perform according to your
expectations. You are not firm enough with them."

Stephen coughed quietly and then changed the subject,
heading off the inevitable lecture. Her uncle was well used to the dinner
habits of her family. "Frank, Mr. Rivers is the defense attorney on the
Bentley case. Have you been following the trial?"

Papa's answer was long in coming as he paused to lower his
fork. "I have better things to do with my time, Stephen, than wallow in
such tawdry events." He drank his wine thoughtfully. "But I
understand that my good friend Charles Fulton is conducting a superior
prosecution."

Emma's eyes fluttered to Malachi's face as she felt outrage
on his behalf. But he merely wore the dangerous look she'd learned was prelude
to a salty retort. If she'd thought to ameliorate the rancor of her parents by
inviting him, she'd been mistaken.

She braced herself for a volcanic reaction.

Malachi turned to his right to gaze directly at her father,
curling his lip in what could've been the prelude to a snarl. "Really,
sir? You are friends with Charlie?"

"Charles," Papa corrected with a frown. "Yes,
I am, and a finer district attorney the county has never seen."

Malachi began shaking his head, the smile still hovering
around his full lips, but not quite reaching his cold blue eyes. Did Papa
realize that their guest was mocking him?

"Oh, yes, old Charlie has managed to acquire quite a
number of petty convictions," Malachi said.

Papa gagged as if his neck cloth were choking him. "Petty
convictions? Explain what you mean, sir!"

"Oh, nothing much except that Charlie's last ten
convictions were women arrested for panhandling, solicitation, and petty theft."

Malachi took a long draught of wine and continued while her
father dropped his jaw in disbelief. "I believe the theft was for a loaf
of bread to feed the woman's children. All ten perpetrators received
significant jail sentences."

"As well they should," Mother interrupted,
signaling for Margaret to pour more wine in everyone's glass. "We cannot
allow this kind of criminal to run wild about our community."

Malachi laughed softly, but without humor. "Hardly
criminal, madam." He smiled, wiped his mouth, and placed his dinner napkin
on the table. "Well, at any rate, they're fed and clothed while
incarcerated, which is more than they could expect living on the streets."

Emma's hands had gone clammy and her cheeks felt as though they
were leached of all color. "A mother? Are you saying the district attorney
charged a mother with stealing food for her children?"

"Now, Emma, don't get emotional," her father
warned. "You know how easily you let your heart rule your head."

"But what about the children?" Emma asked.

Malachi shrugged casually enough, but Emma could see the
tight set of his jaw and the distended veins of his neck. "The foundling
home, one supposes."

"Come now, Rivers," Papa said, glancing toward
Stephen for support. "It's hardly Fulton's problem that the children's
mothers engage in illegal activities."

Her uncle remained mute, eyeing Malachi carefully.

"After all, he is the elected officer of the people,"
Papa continued.

"Charles Fulton won the election as Bigler County
District Attorney with the backing of wealthy citizens in our fair town,"
Malachi retorted. "He caters to their whims and prosecutes cases against
the poorest element of society while he's lenient with the rich."

He edged his chair back as if ready to fight and sounded as
though he'd reached the end of his tether. As if he'd spouted the speech many
times before.

"However, you sir," her father answered, standing
and throwing his napkin on top of his serving plate. "You cater to the
meanest element of society, the dregs of our community who would blight the
very countryside with their slovenliness and crime. A country that we built on
hard labor."

Malachi's face twisted in scorn. "Perhaps with hard
labor, Mr. Knight, but not
your
labor."

Emma's hands shook as if gripped by a serious palsy and she rose
quickly to ward off the imminent calamity. "Mother, Father," she
nodded to each in turn. "I'm feeling unwell. Please excuse us. Mr. Rivers
and I shall leave now."

Her father's voice was a great icy canyon that echoed with a
northern coldness. "Sit down, Emma. We haven't yet discussed the intended
topic which was the purpose of this dinner tonight."

Malachi stood abruptly and stared at her across the table,
but she couldn't read his expression. "Emma, would you like me to take you
home?" His voice was even and uninflected.

"Sir, you may leave." Her father's voice raised a
notch, an indication that his cruel frigidity would soon erupt into molten lava.
"However, my daughter will remain. Stephen will accompany her when we are
finished."

"Emma?" The force of Malachi's will permeated
throughout the room. "I won't leave without you unless you agree."

She blinked furiously several times. How humiliating to be
dealt with like a child in front of a man she wanted respect from. How could
Malachi trust her investigative skills if she crumbled so easily beneath her
father's will? Yet, how could she turn tail and run from her father like a
coward?

She glanced down at her uncle, whose face was a complex mass
of sorrow and wisdom. Why hadn't he intervened? Defended her? But Stephen's
eyes were riveted to the proud, tight form of Malachi Rivers who stood like a
soldier across from her.

"Emma?" Malachi asked again, his voice neither
cajoling nor condemning her. She wondered if she could trust a man like him.

"I'll return with my uncle," she answered at
length. "Thank you so much for joining us tonight, Mr. Rivers."

Silence hung ugly and ponderous for several long moments.

Emma didn't miss the hard determined look of Malachi as he
retrieved his overcoat and gloves, and with a nod Stephen's way swept from the
house. She'd disappointed him.

With a great sense of abandonment, she turned to face her
father.

#

After Malachi left, silence descended on the dining room as
heavy as a death knell. But Emma knew the quiet was only a lull before the
storm.

Stephen looked at her with kind, but piteous eyes. He would
not help her now, however much he wished. Perhaps he could not. She must fight
her own battles.

"Let us step into the parlor for tea," Mama
suggested.

Emma jerked her head. "I'd prefer a good strong cup of
coffee if I'm to be led to the butcher's block."

Her father choked on his water. He disapproved of her
developing taste for coffee because he had the notion that well-bred ladies
drank that most tepid of drinks – tea. Coffee-drinking ought to be reserved for
the male of the species. But he nodded toward Jenny, apparently reserving his
best ammunition for larger issues.

The four of them settled in the small parlor mere minutes
before Jenny brought in the service tray. This room, lighter in décor than the
rest of the house, soothed Emma's wrought nerves with its bright yellow and
blue hues and floral prints.

Her mother sat on the sofa to perform the serving tasks, but
her father loomed over Emma's chair. Her uncle lounged by the arched entry. At
the sight of the service tray, prepared with both tea and a coffee carafe, Emma
lifted her chin, feeling she'd won a victory, however small.

But Papa's next words removed all thought of triumph. "Your
mother and I have decided to send you to Switzerland for the winter," he
said without preliminary.

She couldn't have been more shocked if he'd turned into a
two-headed goat.

"Switzerland!" her uncle exclaimed, taking a step
toward her. "What in damnation would you do that for? She's got a business
to run."

"No, Stephen," Father contradicted, sipping his
coffee as calmly as if Emma's world weren't tottering before her.
"You
have a business to run. Emma does not belong there."