Hers the Kingdom (57 page)

     Before Joseph could answer the dogs set to barking. We heard, then, the unmistakable rumble of a carriage.

     "Willa didn't get the gate up in time," I muttered. A few moments and the carriage came into view. None of us moved to meet it, nobody went to greet Charles Emory when he emerged. For a long moment no one said anything. We watched Charles blink, look about as if he had arrived on a social outing. Finally, he walked over to where we sat together, the three of us. Joseph was the first to speak.

     "Out for a Sunday ride, are you, Charles?" he asked, his tone innocent humor.

     "Owen always did say that the coast road rivaled the Grand Corniche," Charles shot back, reminding us that he had once been part of our lives. I felt a sudden surge of fear.

     Charles was looking directly at Sara. He did not take his eyes from her for several long minutes, but let the silence grow. Sara met his gaze, she did not waver. Finally he said, "I would like a private word with you, Sara."

     "Hello, Charles," I cut in, reminding him that he had ignored the civilities. I rose, moving between him and Sara, but she was quicker than I and managed to be up, her arm around my waist. With the gentlest of motions, like some sweet waltz step, she handed me over to Joseph, who tucked my arm in his and led me into the house.

     Charles and Sara went into the front parlor and shut the door. Joseph and I waited in the next room. I sat with my hands in my lap while Joseph paced. It was not a nervous pacing, but rather thoughtful, as if he were trying to piece things together.

     We could hear the low undertone of the voices from the next room: Charles' high and staccato, Sara's low and soft. Had we heard what they were saying, I would not have understood, not then. Not until much later.

     "I suppose," Charles opened the conversation, "this should make you feel good, forcing me to come searching you out like this."

     Sara looked at him. "You never did have even the vaguest notion of what makes me feel good, Charles. But I will give you a
hint: Your coming here does not make me feel good. So state your business and be on your way before Willa returns and cites you for trespassing."

     "Yes," Charles said, with his old grin, "Willa would do that."

     "What is it?" Sara said, her voice sharp.

     "I want you to stop cooperating with Brennan and that bunch of bastards that call themselves the Lincoln Republicans. They're out to do the Southern Pacific in, and you are feeding them the information they need. We know it. We even know how you do it. Your sources are being closed. But you should consider something else—your spite is going to hurt you, as well as us, since you are a major shareholder in the company."

     Sara walked to the window, turning her back on him, letting her hand trail casually over the back of a chair. She considered telling him that her motive was not spite, but decided against it. Better he think her spiteful than resourceful. Better he think she was doing it out of misplaced vengeance than from preservation. She was, she knew, the only one who could protect the Malibu from Charles this time.

     "You've accused me of cooperating and you want me to stop," Sara said, "but you wouldn't come all the way out here unless you had something more to tell me. You want me to stop or . . . or what, Charles?"

     "I've told Helen you're a good deal smarter than she gives you credit for," he said, his voice insinuating, mean. Sara was careful not to move, not even her hands. She would not give him that. He sat down, crossed his legs as if he planned to stay, began unwrapping a cigar. "It's quite nice out here on the ranch—different, though, from what I remember. But nice, still. I can't imagine why Wen doesn't feel welcome here . . ."

     Sara's back straightened; Charles noticed, smiled.

     "He's come to work for us, you know."

     "I didn't know," Sara said, looking at him with ill-concealed contempt, "but I'm not surprised. He's a stupid boy, perhaps you'll
find him usable sometimes, but that's not all you have. I don't want to waste the whole of my day waiting for you to divulge your little mysteries. I'm not a wife, Charles, I have no duty to listen to you . . ."

     He ground out his cigar in sharp, hard swirls. "All right, Sara, here it is. Stop feeding information to the politicians. Stay out of it or you will find how hard I can hit. I know what this place means to you and your precious friends, the . . . Lena and Willa. I can bring this place down, Sara. I can destroy everything . . . Lena and Willa and the little . . ." he paused, dramatically, ". . . twins, the remarkable little twins . . . with it. Do you understand what I am saying, Sara? Don't underestimate me."

     Sara's mind was racing—the twins. He knew, of course he would make it his business to know. Too many people were involved. She would have to be careful now, too much was at stake.

     "I have never underestimated you, Charles," she answered, "that is why I am here today. But you have consistently underestimated me. Let me ask you a question now. Do you happen to remember a man named Proctor, Amos Proctor?"

     Charles' eyes narrowed, the pupils seemed to diminish to pinpoints as if flooded by light. "He was a Treasury agent," she continued in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper, "and he met with an unfortunate . . ." Sara paused, then continued, "accident. It was on the second day of the new century, in a boarding house in . . ."

     Charles bolted out of the chair, for a moment she thought he might strike her. She felt a rush of elation, and turned away to hide it.

     "Strange that our marriage wasn't more of a success, Charles," she continued, calmly, "you can't say I wasn't an apt student. You taught me how to . . . negotiate, shall we say?"

     "I'll see you in hell, woman," he spat, his voice out of control, as he strode out of the door and stormed into his carriage, barking at the driver to be off.

     "Give my stepmother my regards," Sara said, too softly for anyone to hear.

Her face reflected victory. Sara linked her arms in ours, Joseph's and mine, and guided us across the lawn toward the pergola where the twins were playing.

     "He's not a man to underestimate," Joseph warned.

     Sara smiled up at him. "How odd you should say that," she laughed, "that's just what Charles told me. And I answered him as I will you—truthfully. I never have."

     Joseph stopped, looked hard at Sara, then broke into a fine laughter. Soon we were all laughing, our arms about each other.

     "Sara," Joseph finally said, gasping for breath, "you are a wonder. A perfect wonder."

     "Are you just finding that out?" I asked him. "I've known all along. If Sara were a man, she'd have all of you by the throat."

     "Then I'm glad I'm not a man," Sara said, holding out her arms to Kit, "because I have everything I want right now . . ." Kit threw herself into Sara's arms and hugged her. "Look here, Joseph, at our godchildren. What more could one ask?"

     Joseph was smiling on the children, and it moved me to say something that, perhaps, should have gone unsaid. "I suppose it's terrible to say, Joseph, but we have benefited so from your being free to serve as father to the children. No one could be a better father than you have been."

     "I'm afraid I've failed with Wen," Joseph sighed.

     "You've guessed, then?" Sara said, and Joseph nodded. "It makes sense," he went on. "Wen's ambition far outstrips his abilities. He thinks the old school tie business will see him through, but I don't. Not here in the West, at any rate. Here, even Harvard men are supposed to have some abilities. Since I'm the one who
has witnessed Wen's failures first-hand, it is understandable that he would dislike me. By throwing in with Charles, he hits at his mother and me in one stroke. It stands to reason that Charles would try to make use of such a situation."

     "But what could . . ." I began, then a hard knot of fear formed in my stomach. "Wen doesn't know?" I whispered, looking at the twins.

     "No," Sara said firmly, "and I think Charles will find out soon enough that Wen isn't going to do him any good, and he'll let him go then."

     I felt immediate relief. I knew that Wen could cause quite a lot of trouble for all of us, if he could prove that Porter was not a legitimate heir to his father's fortune. He could discredit his mother, could cause all manner of grief to all of us.

     The matter of Porter's being an heir bothered me more than I cared to admit. I had, in fact, asked Willa to disinherit Porter. Money was no real object. I would have a tidy income to leave him, and I knew the twins were to be Sara's principal heirs. But Willa, and Joseph was in agreement, felt that it was too soon to make such a legal move, that it would raise questions we did not want to answer.

     "Wen isn't your failure, Joseph," I said. Sara, suddenly angry, agreed. "Wen is Wen's failure," she said, "I wish you two would stop acting as if either of you—or Willa or Owen, for that matter—had anything to do with making Wen what he is. He has committed the most despicable acts—holding Aleja down so his schoolmate could rape her, then all those disgusting escapades at school . . . fornication and blackmail and God knows what all else . . ."

     "Gambling," Joseph said, drily, but Sara was too riled to catch the note of sarcasm.

     "I don't know what happened to Wen," Sara went on, "I do know that others—Owen, for example—had a more difficult time as a child, and were able to overcome it. If Wen is going to throw
in with Charles, so be it. He will find out how hard the world can be. Maybe it is what he needs—with no Owen, no Joseph to rescue him."

     "Sara, my girl," Joseph said, gently mocking, "such a sentimentalist you are."

SALLY FAIRLEIGH SPRAWLED under the big oak, one arm looped around Kit's shoulder, the other hand holding the book. Porter lay close by on his stomach, feet in the air. All three were barefoot, and the bottoms of their feet were blotched with black asphaltum from the beach. Each afternoon, if Sally deemed their schoolwork properly done, she read to them aloud. At first she had chosen books she thought they would enjoy—rhymes and fairy tales. Now, at Porter's insistence, she was reading from
Huckleberry Finn.
She read with gusto, throwing herself into all the parts without the slightest hesitation—even Jim:
"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis know it."

     The twins were transfixed. They had been munching on apples, but now they were too engrossed to remember to take a bite, or even to notice that one of the pet chickens was about to rush at Porter's apple, outstretched in his hand.

     Soong and I watched, unseen, from the arbor.

     "Trust Sara to understand what is lacking, and supply it, before anyone else has so much of a glimmer that there is a need."

     "That's rather enigmatic," I replied.

     "I mean, what the twins need—what everyone needs—is a schoolteacher who goes barefoot, eats apples, and reads Mark Twain to five-year-olds."

     I laughed, delighted. "Sally does stir things up, doesn't she? And you're right, we did need stirring. We were getting quite stale, I think."

     "It's the wild red hair I find fascinating," Soong went on, "the color of it, and the way it crinkles and sticks out . . . and all those strange marks on her face."

     "Freckles!" I giggled. "I forget that you haven't seen many redheads—or any, I guess, if you haven't seen freckles. Most redheads have them. What a sheltered life you've led, Soong." I gave him a mischievous grin. "Redheads usually hate their freckles, but Sally claims she quite likes them. Her father told her, and she told me, that freckles are vastly underestimated as marks of distinction, except in some tribes in deepest Africa. She had therefore, she said, decided to be content with her looks."

     Soong shook his head, smiling. "One never quite knows what the young lady is going to say, does one?"

     "No," I agreed, grinning at him again, and mimicking his suddenly stuffy English accents, "one doesn't. Has she convinced you to teach that field course in botany? I am to do my stint in music. She has already scheduled me for three hours each week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at eleven in the morning."

     "I think I must speak to your sister first, to see if she would find it agreeable."

     "Whyever?" I asked, surprised. "You know Willa won't object."

     "I think not," he answered, slowly, "but I also think that young Thad feels I already 'take advantage' of a special position in the household."

     "Has he said anything to you?" I demanded.

     "No, no. And I doubt he has said anything to his mother yet, either. But I feel sure it is coming, and I think it wise to take precautions now."

     "Thad is no threat," I assured him. "I am a bit peeved with him now for his treatment of Sally. He doesn't seem to have cottoned to her at all, and I can't imagine why. She has delighted the rest of us no end."

     "Perhaps that's why," Soong answered.