Angelina closed her eyes. “I think I will. Please rouse me when we reach Fillmore and Washington.”
NOTHING’S CHANGED, STELLAN thought. He didn’t want to breathe. The air was foul, the land dust dry, and the crowds of humans, more visible than ever in daylight, smelled acrid. San Francisco had no order, no symmetry. There certainly had been no improvement to the system of traffic since his last visit. People crossed at any and every point, as did riders trotting into view from behind wagons or blind corners. He’d witnessed three near calamities since they started and it had only been a matter of minutes. At that point, Stellan wondered if his whole plan seem mad. Maybe it is. But when he looked over at Angelina, resting quietly, with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed, her long hair falling in tangles over her shoulders to brush the seat of the car, he knew he’d made the only possible choice. He drank her in until the driver dropped speed and shifted into low gear. They were moving away from the business district, driving nearly straight uphill. Upon reaching the top, they turned again and descended a short way, pulling over to the curb. Stellan placed his hand lightly on Angelina’s shoulder. “Miss Ralston?”
She straightened and attempted to put her clothes in better order. “Hello.” She gave him a soft smile. “Come. You must see the view.”
Stellan got out to get her door, but she was already climbing out. She pointed toward the sea.
The homes lining the hilly street were grand, but the vista took his breath away. He could see all the way to the marina. Beyond that was the Golden Gate Channel, turning red with the sinking sun. And beneath it . . . ah, beneath it lay the sheltering tombs. “The light is extraordinary.”
Angelina tilted her head. “Are you an artist?”
“Not like you.”
She raised her brows but didn’t reply. For a few moments they stood side by side, watching the sun go down. It was a rare sight for Stellan, considering what it took for his kind to tolerate the day. He glanced at her neck and frowned. Hopefully, no harm would come of his choice.
The driver stepped up, dusting off his cap and clearing his throat. Stellan pulled a fine leather wallet from his breast pocket and paid.
“Mr. Fletcher, I will not be any more of an inconvenience.”
“It is no trouble, I assure you.”
She curtsied. “Shall we face the family then?”
He offered to support her, but she kept a slight distance between them.
“I’m rattled, Mr. Fletcher, I’ll admit, but I’m not an invalid. I only hope the news is that all have been as lucky as I to survive.” Angelina led the way up wide steps that began at the sidewalk. They were lined with an ivory, wrought-iron fence. Wandering roses grew over the metal, their vines following the contours of every loop and curlicue, dotting them with apricot and yellow blossoms.
“This is your home?” he asked as he tilted his head to take in the three-story mansion.
“It’s my father’s.” Her back straightened. “He designed it when he and my mother first married.”
“Your father is an architect?”
“In more ways than one.”
Stellan looked at her sidewise. “Controlling?”
“He’s planned my life from birth to grave.” She shook her head. “But it is a lovely house.”
Stellan felt obliged to make some show of actually looking at the building and not her. “Marvelous rooftops. Copper cupolas?”
“Yes, capping the turrets and oriels, too.”
“Wonderful bay windows.”
“My favorite is on the south wall. The stained glass is from Italy. I will show you.”
He smiled. His face actually hurt from how much he’d been doing that today. “I anticipate viewing it with pleasure, Miss Ralston.”
Angelina laughed, and he felt heat rush through his body. “I think you really are an artist, Mr. Fletcher, a quite famous one perhaps, who is keeping his identity a secret.”
He wanted to say he had no secrets, but instead, he winked at her. In moments, they reached the entranceway, where pillars and arches supported the high ceiling. From the beams, hanging baskets overflowed with ferns and colorful flowers. “Your home is extraordinary, Miss Ralston.”
She leaned toward him. “I must warn you about my family . . .”
For a moment she was close enough for him to catch the pulse of her heart. It was so distracting, he didn’t immediately register the front door’s opening and the voices’ exclaiming in surprise. Soon shouts and a rush of people crowded the entrance, all talking at once. Angelina was whisked inside, and Stellan followed, for the moment forgotten.
“Gerald! Call for the physician!” a booming voice commanded. “And send word to the Blackwells this instant!” He pointed his finger at Angelina. “Twenty-four hours, young woman! That’s how long you’ve been gone without a word! Nearly ruined our new connections. Your fiancé was ready to cut all ties. He thought you were dead!”
She went red in the face. “My sincere apologies, Father.”
The family closed in, assaulting Angelina with questions.
“What were you thinking, not doing as Mrs. Blackwell asked?”
“Have you no concern for your own future?”
“How did you survive?
“You look like something the tide washed in!”
“I feel like something the tide washed in,” she managed to say. “But I’m alive and well, and it’s a relief to know that Mrs. Blackwell and Gerald are, too.” Her eyes went to the servant.
“Of course they are,” her father yelled. “They went inside the cabin, where passengers ought to be.” He glared at her. “How did you manage to get home?”
She pursed her lips slightly. “We have Mr. Fletcher to thank for that.”
Stellan felt the entire gathering turn to him. “It was no trouble,” he said, his eyes still on Angelina.
She returned his gaze and mouthed the words “thank you,” as several women led her up the stairs. “He pulled me from the surf,” she said before disappearing into a room.
Stellan sagged for a moment as if released from a spell.
One of the women, her mother, he guessed, from her age, called down the stairs. “Don’t just stand there, Mr. Ralston. See to this man who’s found our daughter.” She called to a maid. “Hot water for the bath! Quickly! Where is that physician?”
Mr. Ralston stepped forward and extended his hand as he introduced himself. “The ferry situation is appalling! What we need is a bridge.”
“My thought exactly,” Stellan lied.
The older man smiled. “You’ll dine with us, at the least. Are you visiting the city?”
“For a few days . . .”
“You’ll stay here! I insist.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ralston. That will be a pleasure.”
ANGELINA WAS IN her own bed, freshly bathed, with the comforter pulled up to her chin. The elderly physician, Dr. Medleys, had poked and prodded her from toe to tonsils while he mumbled questions to himself, supplying his own, unintelligible answers. Eventually, he gave her a clean bill of health, dressed her neck wound, an injury she could have received when falling over the broken railing, and told her mother to feed her a simple meal and let her sleep. Angelina got the meal, a small portion of fish broth and a piece of sourdough bread, no butter. She also took a few moments to dash off notes to several friends who would be frantic by the news of her disappearance, but even with that accomplished, her mother seemed reluctant to let her rest.
“You did well, Angelina, keeping your counsel in front of Dr. Medleys. He’s competent, of course, but he doesn’t need to hear the details. You know how word gets around.”
“I wasn’t keeping my counsel, Mother. I truly can’t remember what happened.” Until I opened my eyes and saw Mr. Fletcher standing on the shore . . . She sighed into her pillow.
Mrs. Ralston proceeded to test her memory by asking her everything she could think of, from “When did you know you would fall” and “Aren’t we blessed you’re such a strong swimmer” to “Who would have thought that a useful skill?” She wasn’t quite through scolding her, though. “Mrs. Blackwell assured me you’d been asked several times to vacate the deck . . .”
“And she suffered no injury?” Angelina cut in, hoping to change the topic.
“A nasty bruise on the arm and an attack on her nervous system are all. She was seated inside.”
“Yes, Mother. And did all survive?”
Mrs. Ralston shook her head. “Sadly, no,” she said, then started talking about the tea she’d had to cancel on Angelina’s account.
Angelina closed her eyes to feign sleep, deepening her breathing until she heard footsteps brushing over the rug. There was a pause at the door, then it clicked shut. She peeked to make sure a maid wasn’t stationed in her bedside rocker. Finally alone, Angelina felt free to contemplate recent events. Her mind went out to those lost though she couldn’t picture any of the others who’d stayed on deck. Then slowly she felt pulled toward the young man who had found her, Stellan Fletcher. What incredible happenstance to put him in her path at just such a moment. Or put me in his path is more likely. With that thought, her lids closed softly, and Angelina drifted away.
THE HOUSE WAS deadly silent, but Angelina felt another presence in her room. The door hadn’t opened, and there were no footsteps approaching the bed. Still, something had roused her, like a warm mist rising between the cracks in the floorboards. She opened her eyes and startled. Stellan?
Pleased don’t be alarmed, Angelina.
What are you doing here?
If you can forgive the intrusion, I was only hoping to see that you were recovered from the ordeal.
Part of her thought it was beyond forward to be making such a private inquiry. And at this hour! Another part thought the gesture was both sincere and endearing. While she tried to focus on the outlines of his face, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
My beautiful Angelina.
The kiss on her hand lingered, causing sensations to spread throughout her body. The next thing she knew, he was embracing her, his mouth kissing her lips once, very tenderly, then moving to her neck. A pleasurable sound escaped before she could contain it.
Just a few drops . . . he whispered.
Her lids became heavy, and she had the distinct sense of falling into the sea.
Chapter Three
6:00 A.M.
Tuesday, April 17, 1906
ANGELINA SAT BOLT upright, gasping for air. She checked the scream about to escape her lips and took in the room. She was alone, the dawnlight tinting the bay windows rosy red. Slowly, her hand went to her throat. The dressing was in place, but her satin gown had slipped off one shoulder. Her hair had escaped its braid and was damp with sweat. She sat there, in the middle of the bed, trying to make sense of it all.
What happened last night? Her face was flushed, but the images in her mind were fading fast. Whatever it was, it had made her feel good . . . to the core. She got up and filled her washbasin with water from the pitcher. After a wash, Jeanie came in to help her dress. Breakfast was served early at the Ralstons’, and no doubt Mason Blackwell would call to see that she had indeed survived. And discuss the latest engineering developments with her father. She frowned. Mason . . .
The engagement had not been her idea. Mr. Ralston simply announced one day that it was time for her to do her duty to the family.
“I wasn’t aware of such obligations,” she’d said.
“Then I’m glad to have enlightened you, daughter,” he’d answered back.
Mason Blackwell was a young architect in the Ralston firm, and not without independent means.
“It’s a logical choice,” her father had insisted.
“Hardly the best motivation for marriage!”
He’d dismissed that outright. “What else would you base your choice on?”
Shortly after that conversation, Mr. Blackwell came to call. Angelina thought him too much like her father, but both families were congratulating them before she got the first protest out.
“Think it through,” her mother had said in private. “You’re twenty-seven and have yet to accept any prospects. Enough is enough!”
“I haven’t accepted any because none have shown the least interest in my art, or my philosophies.”
“My dear! Why on earth would you want them to?”
Angelina thought of her photographs hanging in New York galleries and being purchased for publication in the Yellow Ribbon, a statewide suffrage newspaper. How could she wed someone who didn’t recognize her creative goals or respect her politics? What am I going to do? The families were pressuring them to set a date, her mother hoping for June! It didn’t give her much time to figure a way out. I must make a stand!
Angelina held on to the thought, as well as the back of a chair, while Jeanie laced up her corset. It was yellow satin with white ribbing, made from the latest pattern out of Paris, La Mode Illustrée. Thank you, cousin Emily. Yesterday, her corset strings had come completely loosened in the accident, and the freedom of that sensation was hard not to long for. Jeanie helped her slip on a pale rose tea dress and buttoned it up the back. Her hair was untangled, put up, then on went the matching hat, with its trail of paper roses on one side.
“Lovely,” Jeanie said, as Mrs. Ralston pushed into the room.
“A great improvement over yesterday’s appearance!” her mother confirmed.
“Thank you.” Angelina cleared her throat. “Is Mr. Fletcher at the table?”
“Of course. Where else would a young man be? Though his appetite for conversation seems bigger than his stomach.”
