“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.”
“Mother?”
“He’s as obsessed with the Golden Gate as Misters Ralston and Blackwell. I suspect he’s an architect or an engineer. How many men of such persuasion can fit into my house?”
“Three at least, it seems.” Angelina turned from the mirror. “I’m ready.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “You’re positively glowing, child. Are you sure you’re not fevered? How’s your appetite?
“I could eat a horse,” she said, making Jeanie smile and her mother gasp. Angelina headed downstairs, leaving them to follow.
STELLAN GLANCED NOW and then at Mason Blackwell. The human was unimpressive, as far as he was concerned. Stocky build but leaning toward portly, a weak jaw, and hairline receding like a full-moon tide. None of this would matter if he had heart. Strength of spirit. Reverence for Angelina. So far, these attributes had not been displayed. Blackwell had barely asked after her, making Stellan’s opinion of the man fall even lower. Utterly unworthy.
Stellan. . .
He startled, turning his gaze to the dining-room entrance. It was empty. Now I’m imagining her voice in my head?
Moments later, Angelina appeared in the doorway, her eyes going to Stellan’s and resting there.
“Miss Ralston,” he said, and stood. “And, Mrs. Ralston,” he added, as her mother came straight in and sat down.
The other men finally rose as well. Mr. Ralston gave his daughter a cursory look. “I trust you’re fully recovered and have written formal apologies to Mrs. Blackwell and her son?” He indicated Mason, who stood next to him.
Angelina seemed unable to respond.
Mr. Ralston sat back down, leaving Stellan to pull her chair out, seating her next to him. It put her directly across from Mason, who was still standing. When the other man spoke, Stellan had to contain the low growl threatening to escape his lips.
“Dear Angelina.” Blackwell spoke as if reciting a passage. “It was such a relief to hear of your safe return. Mother is still recovering from the shock of it all, of course.” Somehow, he managed to make it sound as if it were Angelina’s fault. “A harrowing experience, I am sure, but all’s well that ends well.” He smiled briefly, then sat back down to his morning paper.
“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell, for your, and Mrs. Blackwell’s concern for my welfare.” She kept her hands in her lap as her breakfast was served: two fried eggs, bacon, and toast with blueberry jam. Along with it came a silver tray with a mountain of envelopes. “I can see my recovery is an utter relief to some. Thank heavens.”
The paper rustled. “Yes, thank heavens.”
She didn’t reply, but Stellan thought the San Francisco Call might ignite from her look alone. He turned to her slightly. “Do you feel completely yourself today?”
She blushed. “I feel more myself than I ever have in my life. I might go so far as to say a new self is emerging.” She focused on her breakfast, attacking it with knife and fork, taking large bites of egg followed by the toast. After washing it down with tea, she said to the table, “I seem to be ravenous.”
I, too. . .
Her head jerked up, eyes on Stellan’s. “Pardon?”
“It’s . . . a beautiful day.” He tried to cover his shock. “Sunny again. I’d always thought your city was filled with fog.”
“Not always, sir,” she said softly.
Blackwell, ignorant of the small exchange, interrupted by reading aloud from the morning paper. “Dockworker found in the early hours of the morning, drowned.”
“A careless man, no doubt,” Mrs. Ralston said. “Falling down on the job.”
“Quite careless, I agree. He also managed to have his throat torn out.” Blackwell read on. “Second man found in such a state in as many days . . .”
“Sharks?” Stellan asked in a level voice.
“Don’t they usually take the whole torso?” Mr. Ralston asked, his paper lowering as he took a sip of tea.
“Mr. Ralston, please. How morbid,” Angelina’s mother said.
“It’s a scientific fact. Sharks feed in a kind of frenzy, dismembering . . .”
“Enough!” Mrs. Ralston snapped. “Our daughter was only just fished from the very same bay. Please don’t conjure such frightful images.”
“I can’t imagine Miss Ralston being too distraught,” Blackwell said from behind his paper. “Knowing her, she’d want to photograph the scene.” He laughed.
Mrs. Ralston didn’t approve of that statement either.
“Only if the light was good,” Angelina said. But her hand went to her neck. Stellan watched as a drop of blood escaped the confines of the dressing and trickled toward her collarbone. Quickly, Stellan handed her his napkin. She blotted up the drops and secured the dressing tighter. It took her a moment to recover, but when she did, she squared her shoulders and addressed Mr. Ralston’s paper. “Father, I must prevail on your generosity. My camera was lost . . .”
“Negligent of you,” he said. “I hope you learned from the experience.”
“Yes, Father. But if I am to photograph the shores . . .”
“I see.” He dismissed her with a wave. “Procure the camera. I need those images by next week.”
“Thank you, Father. I shall be about it today.”
“Today?” Mrs. Ralston said. “Isn’t that a little soon to be traipsing about the Emporium?”
“I’m fine, Mother.”
“You’ll not go out alone.”
“I am perfectly capable of . . .”
“I will escort her,” Stellan said. “If that suits you, Miss Ralston.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. I know you have an interest in the arts. Your presence would be helpful.” Her voice was even, but she was blushing.