Frail Blood (5 page)

Chapter 5

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."
–
Hamlet

Hurriedly descending the courtroom steps, Emma fairly ran
down the stairs to the grassy lawn. She had intended to write about Mr. Rivers,
the contrast between defendant and defender, but now that seemed insignificant.

After the day's testimony it was imperative to run an
article about Alma herself, something poignant about the woman, with her
rude-looking clothes and frayed bonnet. Something to wrench the hearts of her
readers and foster community sympathy for the poor woman. In spite of her
confession.

In spite of her guilt.

Emma didn't question her change of heart toward the
defendant. Her contention had never been with Alma herself, a poor, desperate
creature caught up in her own passion. Her argument was with the method of Alma's
defense.

She believed the woman must stand accountable for her
actions however wrenching her situation. She must not be exonerated simply because
she was a woman. But Emma also wished to demonstrate that the defendant was
someone who should garner the jurors' compassion.

So intent was she on rushing back to
The Gazette
office that she failed at first to heed the voice behind her.

"Miss Knight, wait!"

She turned to witness Mr. Rivers pursuing her with
long-legged strides, his hair ruffling in the mild breeze. Really, why didn't
the man simply wear a hat? He flaunted his uncovered head as carelessly as a
working-class man.

Unconsciously she tugged at her own tendrils escaping from
their usual tidy knot. The stark contrast between her own reddish curls and Mr.
River's dark, ferocious mane startled her. She didn't recognize the embryonic
stirring of attraction as an unexpected shiver ran through her.

Good grief!
She shook herself mentally.

"What do you want, Mr. Rivers?" she asked when he
was close enough to hear her.

An amused look flitted across his lips, drawing her
attention to his mouth and causing another sting of emotion unfamiliar to her.

"Perhaps it is I who can help you, Miss Knight."

She stiffened. "I hardly think so."

He raked a thick strand of hair out of his eyes. "Let's
speak in your office," he answered, giving her no option to refuse. Tucking
her arm through his, he escorted her in silence the remaining blocks to
The
Gazette.

Inside, away from the wind, he smoothed his fingers through
his unruly hair. Her eyes followed his gesture, the large, powerful hands
intriguing. She blinked slowly.

Goodness, when had she developed a hair fetish?

"You apparently find the cut of my hair fascinating,
Miss Knight," Malachi said wryly. "Perhaps you would like the name of
my barber?"

"Why don't you simply wear a hat?" she groused,
feeling provoked. No doubt he'd noticed each girlish glance she'd darted his
way.

He grinned in answer. "Because I enjoy the unexpected
disturbance of the wind in my hair and on my face," he answered candidly. "It
makes me feel alive."

"How silly," she rejoined.

"If you say so." He shrugged. "Would you like
my barber's name then?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I have a perfectly excellent hair
dresser." Removing her gloves and broad-brimmed hat, she positioned
herself behind the counter – a safe barrier – before she smiled sweetly. "Besides,
I'm sure such a short cut on a woman would set our small community on its ear."

He laughed heartily. "Touché, Miss Knight! I expect
Placer Hills is too backward yet for any fashion change you intend to report in
your newspaper."

His eyes traveled over the latest design of her
fitted-bodice suit and shirt-waist. His meaning was clear – that she was
concerned with little besides boots, skirts, and hats.

She frowned. "On the contrary, I'm far more interested
in serious issues than the frivolity of women's clothing."

And yet, wasn't that exactly the piece she'd originally
intended to write – one about Alma's poor attire and ill-fitting boots in
contrast with Malachi's immaculate sartorial makeup?

Except for the lack of hat wearing, of course. For a moment
she felt ashamed.

Malachi eyed her skeptically and abruptly changed the
subject. "Alma believes – no, she is quite convinced – she shot Joe Machado
only once."

Emma gaped at him. "Should you tell me that?"

Malachi shrugged. "Probably not. But don't you think it
significant?"

She fairly hissed through her teeth, looking around the
empty office as though someone might overhear them. "I'm a newspaper
editor, for heaven's sake! What you say in front of me might find its way to
the front page of
The Gazette."

"As it has surely done before," he countered.

"Exactly!"

"Then you agree that you overstepped the bounds of your
office when you interviewed Alma." He eyed her like a mouse caught in his
giant cat's paw.

"Oh, you infuriating man," she cried, turning away
and trying to compose herself. What game was he playing with her?

"If so, then I most certainly
should
keep my
counsel," he continued, all rancor over the newspaper article apparently
gone.

"Yes!" She turned around and pretended to shuffle
papers on the counter, but after a moment curiosity won out. "Are you
going to claim Alma didn't shoot Joseph?"

Malachi grinned wickedly. "I didn't say that, and surely
you understand I cannot comment on such a speculation without revealing private
communications between my client and me."

"Well, it's too late for that," she snapped. "Isn't
it?

#

Emma banged the cutlery on the oak dining table and
rearranged the centerpiece – roses from her own garden that she'd clipped and
arranged herself this afternoon.

After the third slamming clatter, Sarah shouted from the
kitchen. "Miss Emma, stop that racket. A body can't hardly think about the
meal they're supposed to fix with you clackin' and clangin' around out there."

Emma pursed her lips and blew out a sigh. Sarah was right. No
need to take out her ill humor on the silver. It was neither the fault of her
cook nor the eating utensils that Malachi Rivers was coming to spend an awkward
and very uncomfortable several hours as her unwelcome dinner guest.

What had her uncle been thinking?
Why had she
complied?

And why in heavens had he accepted?

Damn him!

Thinking of her half-hearted invitation to Mr. Rivers
mortified her. She could have been more graceful, she supposed grudgingly.

But really! The man was more frequently insufferable than
not. Why did she allow him to perturb her so? A man certainly beneath the
Knights in social standing, he was not likely to attend the same social
functions as they. She certainly could have ignored her uncle's wishes.

But wasn't the abolition of social barriers one of the causes
she wished to champion? Of course! Therefore, asking Mr. Rivers to dinner was
merely a step in the direction of the independence and equality she wished to
pursue.

The circumlocutory logic suddenly made Emma feel better.

Pounding on the door interrupted her reverie, followed
quickly by her uncle's voice as he stepped over the threshold into the foyer. "We're
here, Emmie," he shouted on a chuckle. "Malachi's just arrived too,
on foot, and with a hearty appetite, I'll wager!"

Malachi?
Already Stephen had ploughed ahead with this
strange intimacy as though the two of them had been fast friends forever. Well,
the man would always be Mr. Rivers to her.

Yes, Mr. Rivers sounded perfect. She worked to compose
herself, clasped her hands at the front of her green evening dress, and
prepared a suitable greeting as her guests crossed into the dining room.

"Good evening, Uncle." She inclined her head in
what she hoped was a mature and regal gesture. "Mr. Rivers."

Did she imagine his eyes darkening in amusement?

"Hello, darling." Stephen bussed her on the cheek.

It was the first time Emma had seen Mr. Rivers with his head
covered. So he could dress appropriately if called upon. She noticed the fine
quality of his beaver hat and the rich leather of the gloves.

Apparently, he was sufficiently wealthy to gain even Papa's
approval. Not that Papa was likely to meet him. Nor would Mr. Rivers ever reach
the extent of her father's or Stephen's fortunes.

Papa was very, very rich. Decadently so. As was Stephen.

"Good evening, Miss Knight." Mr. Rivers removed
his hat and gloves and handed them to Ralston, Sarah's husband, and the only
other servant Emma kept besides the cleaning woman who came in every other day.

He shook her hand like a man's, and while she applauded the
sign of equality, the disconcerting smell of his cologne lingered on the tips
of her fingers. As his hand swallowed hers, she felt callow and gauche.

Dinner lasted a millennium. Emma could not keep her mind on
the topics of conversation. She found herself touching her lips, her cheek, her
temple merely to inhale the heady masculine odor that clung there.

Over dessert – a rich chocolate mousse which was Sarah's
specialty – Uncle Stephen veered the conversation toward the current notorious
murder case. "What are you able to tell us about the trial, Malachi? Without
breaching confidentiality, naturally."

"Very little, I'm afraid." Mr. Rivers dipped his
spoon into the rich pudding and appeared to savor the smooth texture.

"We can deduce much from your actions in court,
however," Emma said sharply.

"Really?" He smiled broadly. "And what have
you deduced, Miss Knight?"

"You are quite cavalier in defending Miss Bentley,"
she charged. "You allowed Mr. Fulton to connect the murder weapon to her
and you hardly objected to anything he implied about your client."

Emma worked herself up until her bosom heaved and she felt
her cheeks redden. The effect seemed to interest Mr. Rivers, for his smile
deepened.

"Hmmm," he responded noncommittally, failing to be
drawn into the argument and cleverly sidestepping every effort she made to
provoke a controversy during the entire meal.

The real trouble began shortly after dessert when her uncle
suggested retiring with Mr. Rivers to the library. Emma hardly wished to remain
in the company of her guest any longer than necessary, but the antiquated
practice of men adjourning to engage in discussion fit only for male
conversations irked her.

Without thinking, she found herself protesting. "Uncle
Stephen, wouldn't gathering in the sitting room for a nice cup of coffee be
preferable?"

Mr. Rivers spoke up. "Actually, I'd love a strong cup
of brew."

"Very well," Stephen readily agreed with a sly
look.

Although her uncle seldom meddled in her affairs to the
extent her parents did, he was fully capable of manipulating a situation. Terribly
modern in his thinking about women, he nonetheless made no secret that he
wished his niece happily settled in a good marriage.

She'd best keep an eye on her wily relative.

Twenty minutes later, coffee was served in the parlor, and
Emma was embroiled in a heated discussion with Mr. Rivers about the franchise
for women.

She sat on the edge of the sofa and poured the coffee while Rivers
reclined in the wide armchair by the window, as relaxed as if he hadn't a care
in the world. In a matching chair Stephen sipped noisily at his brew and
chomped on one of the tiny biscuits prepared by Sarah.

Emma took up the argument immediately. "Surely you don't
believe that a woman is intellectually inferior to a man."

"Not at all," Rivers said. "I simply believe
that society runs more smoothly with women in their proper places. After all,
the home, hearth, babies – these noble endeavors hardly fit into the world of
politics and business."

Stephen nodded approvingly even though Emma knew he'd worked
tirelessly for a woman's right to vote.

"But what about the very excellent arguments Mrs.
Wollstonecraft makes in
Vindication of the Rights of Woman?"
she
asked.

"Gads, the woman's been dead for over a century!"
Rivers retorted. "And this is America, not England."

"That does not, sir, make her arguments less valid."
Heat rushed into her cheeks, and to Emma's dismay, her cup rattled slightly on
its saucer. "What about the Australian and New Zealand women, who have already
been extended the vote? We are sorely behind the times in this country!"

Mr. Rivers' voice was mild, but she detected a spark of
interest in his eyes as his mouth curved up at the corners. "Oh yes, those
women were given suffrage, but what of the aboriginal women, Miss Knight? Because
they are unpropertied, are their rights any less important?"

She saw he was enjoying her discomfiture. "You bait me,
sir!"

"Not at all, Emmie," Stephen intercepted, playing
the mediator. "But Malachi's right about the aboriginal women. And the
suffragists have created quite a hullabaloo in their conventions."

"The issues are complicated," Mr. Rivers added in
a voice that implied Emma was too dunderheaded to understand such complexities.

Her temper rose further and her cheeks flamed with indignation
on behalf of all her sex at his cavalier dismissal of women's intellect. Her
lips set in a thin, stubborn line. "Notwithstanding," she ground out,
"independence is a God-given right. Surely you cannot deny that."

"Hmmm, and yet your independence ... " Mr. Rivers
gestured around the spacious room, "in both your home and business appears
to have been purchased by the sweat of someone else's brow."

Emma ground her teeth. "You presume too much with
little information about a personal situation."