chapter 12
Saturday, September 1
Bret leaned into the high-backed wicker chair in his sunroom, squinting his groggy eyes against the hard brightness of the morning rays streaming through the partially opened shutters.
His head was still spinning like the last waltz with Gabrielle but his thoughts were of another woman, enthralling him with an inexplicable force since the moment he saw her face.
Rebecca Armstrong—like an angel come down to earth, then gone again. He could still hear the haunting melody that had racked his sleep with dark dreams of another time and place.
Bret opened his eyes wide. The sunlight capered along the soft peach tinted walls, rippling in waves across the small oil portraits of his parents, painted shortly after their marriage.
His father, William, gazed back at him with the quiet dignity and strength he imagined the man must have always had in life. The bristling whiskers of his clipped beard made him look older than he actually was, an impression he no doubt valued when dealing in business with men twice his age.
Lorena, his mother, her hair parted down the middle and worn coiled over her ears, had been painted with a melancholic expression that seemed unusual to one so young, as if she was enduring something which removed her smile, but not her sincerity.
Her sad, searching eyes pleaded to Bret; the same eyes that had stared at him from her death bed four years ago.
He rubbed his temples and sipped his mint julep. The drink, when mixed with his medicine, was well appreciated on mornings like these.
A clean, Gulf breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying the fragrance of the many blossoms in the front garden. The aromatic scents helped to clear his head but did nothing to push the heavy weight he felt on his heart whenever he looked at those pictures.
“Mr. McGowan?” Philip stood in the doorway, dressed in a white shirt, gray pin-striped tie, and flannel pants. “Everyone is finished cleaning up the ballroom. The house is almost back in order, sir.” His butler turned to leave.
Bret stood. “Philip, wait. That woman from last night.”
“Sir?” Philip stopped and turned.
“You said she was Doctor Hellreich’s niece?”
Philip examined his cufflinks as if he were making sure they were still secure. “That’s what I heard, Mr. McGowan.” He looked up at Bret. “But what I saw was you waltzing with Miss Caldwell, much to the disappointment of Mr. DeRocha and your friends.”
Bret took a sip from his mint julep. “Everyone knows Gabrielle is a wonderful woman. We’re still good friends.”
“Sir, if you’ll excuse my being blunt. That Doctor Hellreich has been getting folks nothing but agitated at his meetings. You were there so you know I speak the truth. And I also know that Mr. Arley Caldwell, being one of the richest men in Galveston, also sits on the Cotton Exchange and Board of Trade along with his rich friends. Seems to me those are the gentlemen you should be concerned about impressing with your venture in Beaumont.”
The blood started to pound in Bret’s temples again. “I know how my father would handle business, but I only share a last name with him. I’m not the same man he was.”
Philip stood in front of Bret as though trying to block his way. “I’m not saying your father was a saint, sir. But in those bad times, he was the best of the lot around here. Took a long time for things to get better, just like between Miss Caldwell and you.”
He smiled. “Miss Caldwell has always struck me as a very understanding and forgiving woman. No matter what happened between the two of you before, and no matter how sour her words are sometimes, everybody knows she’s still sweet on you. You were both close once. No reason it couldn’t be that way again and more.”
Bret couldn’t deny that he still had a strong connection to Gabrielle, but it was one of friendship now and hopefully a profitable one for both of them. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“Perhaps you’ve had enough of your medicine for one day, sir.”
Bret opened his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Then maybe you’ll also judge that it’s time you stopped living alone in this big drafty house, Mr. McGowan. It’s not natural. You can smile, laugh, and throw all the parties you want, but in the end . . .”
Philip raised his eyes to the high, vaulted ceiling and gazed around. “I know you feel just as empty as this house. A man needs the love of a good woman, to hear his children laughing and playing.”
He put his weathered hand on Bret’s shoulder in that fatherly way he always had. “Fills that troublesome space in a man’s heart with something he never really knew before; joy, sir, and that’s the plain truth of the matter.”
Bret placed his drink down on the silver tray resting on the circular walnut table. The crystal vase next to the tray held withering yellow roses, their petals dry, some scattered on the table and floor.
Turning his back on his butler, he crunched the petals underfoot. “I have too much on my mind to even entertain the idea. I need Colonel Hayes to convince Mr. Caldwell and the others to take a chance on Spindletop.”
“That’s the point, sir. Do you think Miss Caldwell will look at you the same way if you turn up nothing but muddy water? To be sure, she’s a woman of fine character, Mr. McGowan, but she’s also practical like her father—something Mr. DeRocha, Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Foster are hoping will make her see clearly when it comes to her feelings about you.”
Bret spun around; the throbbing in his skull made him nauseous. “You walk a thin line, Philip. Sometimes I wonder why Mother always allowed you to speak so freely. Over the years she came to value your opinions over most others, but . . .”
He pointed at the older man. “I’ll seek your advice when I ask for it. My affairs are my own and don’t need to be commented on. Take care to remember that.”
Philip stared at Bret for a few moments. He lowered his head. “No offense intended, Mr. McGowan, and I apologize.” He looked up at Bret. “I only mention these things because your mother has been gone for some time, and I’ve been considering what to do next.”
He took the folded cloth off his forearm and held it in his hand. “In a few weeks I’ll be leaving to live with my oldest daughter and her family in Rosewood, Florida.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t I pay you enough?”
“It’s not the money, sir,” Philip answered, unperturbed. “Your family has always been a generous employer and I thank you for that.”
“Then what is it? What’s the problem?”
Philip averted his eyes and looked over to the wall where the oil portraits hung. “I promised your father I’d help take care of his family and do my best to make sure you grew up to be the kind of man he would have been proud of, and I tell you sir, I’ve done the best job I could.”
He stepped over to the circular walnut table and picked up the silver tray with the glass. “In exchange for my word, your mother and you have always treated me with respect and paid me well. But, sir, you’re the only McGowan left, so you have to decide now if your family lives on.”
Philip wiped the tabletop around the vase clean with the cloth. “After all these years, I’m tired, Mr. McGowan, and I want to spend my last years with my family. I can recommend a good, dependable man if you wish.”
Bret stared at his butler for a few moments, then sat back down in the wicker chair. “Thank you, Philip. After over forty years, I sometimes forget how accustomed we’ve become to each other’s honesty . . . and at the times one least expects it.”
Philip stopped polishing the tabletop. “And I appreciate that, sir. You know I value the privacy of our friendship. I’ve tried always to be proper and polite in front of your friends and business associates; just the way they would expect.” He smiled at Bret. “But you’re not like the rest, sir, and folks like me remember that.”
Bret glanced at the floor. Philip was right. In spite of all his chores and duties, he had taken the time to show Bret everything that his father never had the time or opportunity for; to properly ride a horse, fire a rifle, land the biggest fish, gut it, and cook it up for dinner, all these things and more—to be forthright as a man and understanding as a friend. “I need to clear my head from last night. I’m going for a drive.”
Philip scrutinized him. “Any place I should know about, sir?”
“I just need to feel the cool air on my face.”
Philip nodded. “As you wish, sir.” Holding the silver tray up with his hand, he walked past Bret toward the exit of the sunroom. He stopped on the first step and looked back. “This room needs fresh flowers, sir, I’ll make sure one of the boys cuts them from your mother’s garden before you go.”
Bret stood on the steps leading up to the Theogenesis Society Hall, admiring the intricate fluting on the front archway. Together with the stonework on the arches and abutment, the entire structure inspired quiet awe, as if one had discovered the last, untouched ruins of an ancient city. It was amusing to think that such an imposing fortress held such an alluring beauty inside.
He lifted the knocker and banged it firmly on the plate. He checked the neatness of his hair and the closeness of his shave on the metal’s burnished surface.
“Just a moment, please,” came a woman’s voice from the other side. “Who is it?”
“It’s Bret McGowan. I’m here to see Miss Rebecca Armstrong.”
There was a long pause.
“We don’t open until three o’clock on Saturdays. Doctor Hellreich isn’t in at the moment. His lecture begins at four o’clock sharp.”
“Please, Miss Armstrong, is that you? I tried telephoning first but there was no answer. This will only take a few minutes of your time.”
Another pause, even longer.
“Miss Armstrong?”
The heavy pine door creaked inward. A woman peered around the edge. “Yes? What can I do for you, Mr. McGowan?”
She was even more captivating up close; her bright green eyes gleamed, and her glistening red hair—pulled back now from her forehead and knotted on top—shone under the natural light of the late summer’s day.
“I . . . I just wanted to thank you for singing last night. You have a beautiful voice.”
The first hint of a smile played at the corners of her full, red lips. “Thank you. I apologize for having to rush off like that, but your compliment is appreciated. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m in the middle of my studies.” She started to close the door.
“No, please.” Bret stepped forward, putting the tip of his shoe across the threshold. “I mean, excuse me. I wasn’t speaking just for myself. Everyone thought you were wonderful. I understand you had to leave early, but you never gave me an opportunity to thank you personally.”
He glanced down at his black balmorals for a moment. “I hope this doesn’t sound out of place,” he said, gazing up into the cool glint of her green eyes. “But you sang ‘Lorena’ with such an enchanting voice that I’ve been hearing that bewitching melody over and over again in my head. It was my parents’ favorite song.”
The young woman blushed and looked away. Bret admired the gold brooch set with a purple amethyst against her white, high-necked blouse. “It’s also my mother’s first name.”
“I hope your parents enjoyed the song, Mr. McGowan, now please . . .”
“My parents have passed on, Miss Armstrong, but they would have enjoyed hearing you sing.” He looked down at the Chinese silk slippers on her feet. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time.” As he tipped his hat to take his leave she glanced quickly over her shoulder down the hall.
“Please,” she said, touching Bret briefly on his forearm. “How rude of me. Here you are paying compliments to a stranger.” Rebecca smiled. “But I haven’t thanked you for the appreciation of you and your guests.” She opened the door completely. “Please, Mr. McGowan. Come in.”
Bret removed his hat and stepped across the threshold into the building. Rebecca walked a few feet ahead of him as he followed her down the hall, watching the contours of her narrow back and slender waist against the shifting folds of her white summer dress.
“This way, please,” she said, pointing down the hall. Bret followed the captivating young woman down the long marble hallway past bronze busts of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle and other notable philosophers from history.
Her raised arm and the slight hollow between her shoulder blades recalled the supple curves of a marble statue Bret had seen in Venice; an eternal image of feminine elegance touched by the hand of only one man, protected forever in stone.
In the hall’s walnut-paneled drawing room, Bret sat on an embroidered winged chair across a table from Rebecca, enthralled by what he imagined to be the growing sensuous glint of her gemstone-green eyes.
He sipped strong, black coffee and conversed with her, eager to know all that he could about this fascinating woman, without appearing too ardent in his intentions.
“I’m intrigued by what you’ve said, Miss Armstrong, and to be honest, somewhat bewildered. The work of your organization seems so . . . so imposing to me. Perhaps that’s why I feel intimidated by it. The only laws of science that I understand are those which make my automobile move and which, hopefully, will bring oil up out of rock.”
Rebecca raised her chin. “I like your honesty, Mr. McGowan. Most men I’ve met through the Society are embarrassed to admit their confusion.”
Bret leaned forward. “Then I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.”
She took a sip from her cup. “How so, Mr. McGowan?”
“That I’m not like most men you’ve met.”
Rebecca blushed again. “A man’s character is everything. Most go to great lengths to conceal what they fear, while others,” she smiled, “are powerless to mask their true feelings.”
Bret stared at her for a few moments. He was conscious only of her nearness, a growing intimate sense of her that seemed to enclose around him, warming his heart in this strange, remote place. “Please. I would prefer if you called me ‘Bret.’”
She placed her cup down. “I would prefer that too, Bret, and I would like very much if you called me ‘Rebecca.’”
Bret inhaled deeply and moistened his lips. A devilish caprice lit up his thoughts as he imagined Rebecca raising her slim arms to undo her hair. He fancied her dress sliding down over her smooth breasts to her slender waist. Finally, the whiteness of her feet as she walked across the floor into his bed.
“Rebecca.” He smiled. “For such an enchanting woman you seem to carry a tremendous sense of responsibility for the future . . . for things that most people would rather leave to fate.”
Rebecca touched a loose tendril of red hair over her ear. “In my heart, I believe I have a choice, Bret, to live the life I desire.” She lowered her gaze for a moment. “People always blame fate when they’ve made foolish choices.” She looked at him again. “Instead of looking at themselves in the mirror.”
As she spoke about her life, Bret was again moved by her demure beauty. He placed his china cup down onto the saucer and sat with his hands relaxing over the armrests and looking only at her.
Where Gabrielle was so patent in her appeal, Rebecca was an alluring mystery. He heard every word she said but he only answered in short, polite phrases, preferring instead to indulge the extraordinary pleasure of letting his eyes dwell on the gorgeous oval of her face. He was excited too by her rich, red hair, and slender, seductive neck above the gentle upturn of her breasts.
“Bret?” She frowned for a moment. “Is something the matter?”
“No . . . no, sorry.” He sat up straight. “I was caught up in what you were saying.” He glanced away from her for a few moments. “What a terrible tragedy that must have been for you to lose both parents from influenza.”
Bret looked back at her. “A person thinks their own family misfortune is the worst thing that could happen, but when they hear things like this . . .” He shook his head. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your past.”
Rebecca dabbed a tear on her left cheek with her napkin. “No, it’s all right.” A wisp of a smile drifted across her lips. “I’ve been working late the last few nights for my uncle, that’s why I had to leave your party so quickly.” She folded the napkin into a perfect triangle and placed it back on the table. “I’m more tired than I thought. You’ve done nothing to apologize for.”
Bret picked up his coffee cup again. “You’ll have to forgive me for saying so, Rebecca, but your uncle sounds like a considerable taskmaster. Managing the affairs of an enterprise and home can consume all the time and energy of even the most resilient person.”
He took a sip of his coffee and swallowed. “People give their whole lives to a profession or family and then wonder why there’s nothing left for themselves. You should enjoy what the Lord has given you because you never know when . . .” He lowered his eyes again for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to sound so maudlin on such a wonderful summer day.”
The smile on Rebecca’s lips stayed longer this time. “You’re very understanding.” She folded her hands in the lap of her dress. “I only wish my uncle could see things the same. I know he would have enjoyed your party immensely.”
Bret leaned forward. “I would very much like to speak with your uncle again. I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot the first time. Is he here?”
“No.”
“Perhaps another time.”
Rebecca looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry.” She raised her head again. “He’s attending to errands and business and I’ve much to do before he returns for the lecture.”
Bret looked at her fingers fidgeting with the pleats of her dress. “Of course. Well, another day then,” he said as he rose.
Rebecca stood abruptly, keeping her hands pressed together against the front of her dress. “My uncle spends so much time attending to the needs of our international program that he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet many people outside of the Society during the time we’ve settled in Galveston.”
She turned a small globe of the world on the desk. “He returned from Germany only a few weeks ago after helping to establish headquarters in Berlin.” Rebecca paused and ran her finger around the globe’s equator. “It seems we get busier every year with new chapters opening in cities around the world.”
Bret picked up his hat and tapped the felt brim. “Then let me be the first gentleman in town, Rebecca, to extend an open invitation to you and your uncle.” He stared into her unblinking eyes. “I should very much like to see you again.”
Rebecca smiled briefly, the flush returning to her pale cheeks. She extended her hand. “I would look forward to that, Bret, thank you.”
“Then . . . may I be so bold as to ask you if you would accompany me to St. Patrick’s church tomorrow?” Bret took her small, cool hand into the larger warmth of his and pressed it gently against his flesh. He gazed at her in silence for a few moments; the snow white of her skin now bathed in a delicate rosy blush.
Rebecca didn’t want to be too hasty in her reply. She smiled and glanced down the hall again before turning to answer. “Yes, Bret. I would like that.” Rebecca withdrew her hand. She stepped toward the hallway and gestured toward the front door. “Tomorrow then. I look forward to attending the service . . . but I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough for today.”
Bret smiled. “On days like this I have all the time in the world.” He followed Rebecca back through the shadows of the cool, moist hallway toward the brilliant heat of the sun streaming in through the fanlight over the front door.
Wild inclinations swept through him in waves of heat and cold and with every step, familiar, overwhelming cravings forced their way in and fused in a single, undeniable desire.
Rebecca paused on the street outside Havelock’s Dry Goods and gazed up at the red ribbons of twilight stretching out across the Saturday evening sky.
Bret’s grand party and meeting him today seemed like dreams, something that only happened to young women in the exciting romance novels she kept hidden from her uncle.
She picked up her stride, walking with light, quick steps, preferring the cover of shaded back streets to the brighter scrutiny of Galveston’s more lighted and public avenues for her private meditations.
Did her uncle really understand what he was asking? Was he telling her the entire truth about Bret McGowan and his family? Even though her uncle declined the gentleman’s invitation he insisted at the last moment that she attend the ball under the conditions he had stipulated, insisting that he would explain everything to her later once he was certain of all the facts, whatever those were.
The air between the buildings and the back streets was dank and sodden; smelling of dead fish rotting on shore. Not even the fragrance of the oleander flowers blooming on their evergreen shrubs could dispel it. Their perfumed aroma only masked the damp rot that hung in the air like invisible webs of decay.
Still, there was something in the hush of these unlit places, the strange couplings of darkening shadow and ghostly light, which gave birth to nameless and untold visions—images alive with the lifeblood of her conflicting thoughts and feelings.
As Rebecca emerged out of a back alley at the corner of 33rd and Mechanic Street, she caught sight of Timothy DeRocha pacing in front of the steps leading up to the Theogenesis Society Hall.
Her uncle described the shorter man as someone so excessively contemptuous of his own background, at times he seemed he would do anything to remove it rather than improve upon it. Rebecca took a few steps back into the shadows but it was too late.
“Miss Armstrong!” the man called from across the street. He waved to her. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
Rebecca let out a slow, exasperated breath, and crossed the street. “Well, Mr. DeRocha,” she asked, feeling her pulse rising after shaking the man’s hot, damp hand. “How may I be of assistance to you? Did my uncle not answer all your questions to your satisfaction?”
“No,” replied the short, heavyset man. “I mean . . . what I meant to ask you was—have you heard any word from your uncle concerning his visit to Miss Caldwell Friday afternoon?”
Rebecca leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
The man removed his hat and gripped it with both hands. “Arley Caldwell’s daughter, Gabrielle. Your uncle promised to speak to her.” He crumpled the brim with his fingers. “About the importance of the Society’s work and how strongly her father believes in making . . . the right choices.”
Rebecca glanced over at the locked doors of the Society hall. “Mr. DeRocha, I am somewhat weary from my work today. I wish to retire early, so any matter that you want to discuss with my uncle or myself will have to wait until Monday at the earliest. Now, if you’ll—”
“Oh Lord! What did he say to her?” The man tugged on the sleeve of Rebecca’s coat like a beggar pleading for a scrap of food. “Why aren’t you telling me what happened? I’ve called the doctor’s number repeatedly but the telephone just keeps ringing.”
He stood between Rebecca and the front door. “I understand that these things have to be approached delicately and I did as he instructed. When I visited Gabrielle this afternoon she didn’t mention it once.” Mr. DeRocha took a step toward her. “If Doctor Hellreich said something that seemed out of place—” He put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.
Rebecca looked down at the man’s stubby, clenched fingers. “I cannot speak for my uncle in his place, but in his defense I can say this: he would never say or do anything that would jeopardize his relationship to the very people who stand to profit most from the Society’s work. Now, sir, unless you want me to scream . . .” she gripped the shorter man’s hand with her own. “I bid you good evening.”
Rebecca pushed the man’s hand off her shoulder and darted toward the steps leading up to the front door. The door handle was already turning from the inside when she reached in her pocket to pull out the key.
She rushed by Edward at the open door. “Rebecca, is something wrong? Did Mr. DeRocha threaten you?”
Rebecca stopped and turned. “No . . . but how did you know?”
“I was watching through my study window. I won’t allow anyone to speak to you like that.” He closed the door.
Rebecca stood in the middle of marble foyer and smiled. How like Edward to want to protect her even when she could take care of herself. More of a silent protector than a friend and almost twenty years older than her, Edward had always been there, watching and waiting, like a loyal servant from years gone by. This was, of course, part of his duty as her uncle’s personal assistant, but he never hesitated to do her bidding whenever she asked. “Does my uncle wish to speak with me?”
“He asks that you see him in his study in a few minutes.” Edward glanced back at the door. “Are you certain that you were not accosted by that man?”
Edward’s attention was always fixed on her eyes, never wavering or glancing down at her bosom as most men, including Bret McGowan, were apt to do more than once during a conversation. “I’m preparing our meal and wondered if you’d like to eat with us. Or, if you like, I can bring something later to your room.”
“Thank you, Edward. That’s very kind of you. I’ve been so busy lately it seems I haven’t sat down to a proper meal in days. I’m absolutely starving.” She smiled at him and brushed back her crisp, red hair. She touched her cheek, reassuring herself of the familiar composure on her face.
“Then I’ll see you at dinner. I do my best to enjoy your uncle’s stories, but . . .” He coughed politely into his cuff. “He speaks much about your mother, his sister, Annabel, these days, and I think it better for all that we talk more of the future . . . and what it holds for all of us. Don’t you agree, Rebecca?”
She laughed. “You’re right. There’s so much more we need to talk about. I apologize for being so distant lately.”
“I look forward to that.” He stepped closed to her. Rebecca glanced away, aware of the flush rising under her skin. “Do you remember, when you were a little girl, how much we enjoyed singing together?”
She covered her laughter with her hand. “You mean our wailing and screeching while you strummed on my uncle’s broken banjo? Lord, he kept that from the war.”
Edward gazed out the window. “Three strings. The fourth broke, and I never fixed it. You said it sounded better.”
“Why not buy a new one and practice? I would so much like to sing with you again.”
He turned and smiled. “Yes, I would like that, after I finish the work your uncle has given me.”
“You could visit the shops tomorrow and stroll along the boardwalk. This is a beautiful city, and you’ve seen so little of it.” Rebecca bit her lip, feeling suddenly very forward and risqué. “Edward Wallace, how do you expect to attract a lady’s fancy if you hardly ever stray outside these impenetrable brick walls?”
Edward stepped away from her. “Paint and perfume . . . is that what you think I want?”
“I’m not suggesting you visit a brothel. The Society attracts women of only the highest social standing. Isn’t that in keeping with my uncle’s philosophy . . . and yours?”
“Your uncle says that in India female children are fed to the crocodiles.”
Rebecca slapped his upper arm playfully. “What a terrible thing to say. I don’t believe such nonsense for a moment, and neither should you. My uncle likes to pull the wool over our eyes sometimes.”
He coughed again and covered his mouth. “I apologize, but you know how some people can be. Always looking for something new to gawk at and whisper about.
“Then all the more reason to step out and let people see what a wonderful man you are.” Rebecca touched him gently on his cheek. “Only the finest woman will do for our Mr. Edward Wallace.” She giggled, turned on her heel and hurried toward the stairs.
Rebecca watched Uncle Cade sit down on his chair behind the heavy oak desk in his private study. The rectangular window behind the desk admitted the rays of the moon that mingled faintly with the flame of the single kerosene lamp burning on the corner of the desk. Several texts and notebooks lay open on the desktop, evidence of his unflagging hard work and dedication to the Society’s mission.
“You should use an electric lamp for your desk, uncle,” Rebecca suggested. “It would be easier to see.”
Her uncle shook his head. “Natural flame is easier for my eyes. Your generation is so used to everything becoming electrified these days, but I find the light harsh and unnatural.”
Rebecca remained standing, looking at the spines of the stacked books on the wall bookshelf to her left. There were many unfamiliar titles on topics she wished to know more about: zoology, philosophy, Eastern mysticism, economics, and evolution.
“Uncle, there’s still so much I don’t understand.”
“In time, my dear. You need to have a clear grasp of the world’s fundamentals before you reveal the details of a new God.”
Rebecca ran her index finger down the spine of a thick volume entitled ‘Eugenics: Policy and Responsibility for a New Century.’ She skipped over to the next, ‘Comparative Phrenology.’
“I’ve read where phrenology has been largely discredited. The size and shape of one’s skull—”
Her uncle banged his fist on his, desk shocking her with its force. “In all my born days. You interrupted my work to debate the continuing relevance of one scientific method? There are others . . . more exacting, and still others waiting to be discovered. Questions will be answered down at the most fundamental cellular level of our being.”
He stared out his study window. “The coming century will be your generation’s time and that of your children where all these truths will be revealed. I thought you understood.”
Rebecca backed away from the desk. “I . . . I didn’t mean to argue, only the man outside, Mr. DeRocha, mentioned something about yesterday afternoon.”
The change of expression on her uncle’s strong, lean face was immediate. A thin, curved smile stretched its way across his taut features. “Sit down, child. Sometimes you’re like a squirrel running back and forth on a tree branch.”
She obeyed and sat down on the wood chair on the other side of the desk. She raised her gaze and met his. “Miss Caldwell and Mr. DeRocha? I don’t understand.”
Uncle Cade looked down at the open pages of the text in front of him as if trying to find something of importance buried in the pages. “There is no mystery here, my dear, I can assure you.” He raised his head again. “I wanted to meet Miss Caldwell for myself to see if she was as exceptional as I had been led to believe by her father and her friends. You know how important it is to attract the proper caliber of person to our cause.” He lifted the cover of the text and slammed it shut. “In particular, women.”
Rebecca folded her hands on her lap. “Mr. DeRocha is under the impression that you spoke to her on his behalf about some very personal matters . . . and that she may have misconstrued something you said.”
Her uncle chuckled and shook his head. “It is Mr. DeRocha who has misconstrued my words,” he corrected. “He has fastened his hope to something that can never be; his engagement and marriage to Gabrielle Caldwell.”
He tapped his fingers on the book cover. “For all the young man’s family’s wealth and prominence, Arley Caldwell would never allow such a union to take place. Any man with a less than desirable background could never marry into a refined bloodline such as the Caldwell’s.”
Uncle Cade slammed his fist down on his desk again. “Only a malicious idiot hell-bent on destroying the perfect opportunity afforded by nature and fate would think to poison the water of life from another man’s well.”
Rebecca jerked back in her chair. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm herself. She pushed her chair back a few inches and straightened her skirt. “Then, if I may ask, uncle, what was your intention to meet with Miss Caldwell in such a manner?”
Uncle Cade folded his arms across each other and leaned forward on the desk. “I may be an older man, Rebecca, but I am not an old man. Do you understand how important the difference is to me and the work we must accomplish?”
Rebecca felt her cheeks flush. She glanced away to hide her embarrassment of knowing there was no proper reply that a young lady could articulate to such a question.
Uncle Cade leaned back and grinned. “Why so shocked, my dear? I have waited a long time to find a woman perfectly suited to help me demonstrate to the world the truth of the words I speak, for after all”—he lifted his head and sat upright in his chair—“the ultimate power and sway of an idea among the teeming masses is only effective if it can be realized in front of their eyes; be turned into something alive, something they can see, touch, and feel.”
Her uncle rose from behind his desk. He stepped over his black grand piano and commenced to play. The sweet, melodic stream of a Chopin waltz bathed Rebecca’s senses, consoling her with its beguiling charm and innocence. She relaxed and sank back in her chair, parting her lips to speak, but having nothing more to say.
Her uncle slowed the tempo and danced his agile fingers across the keys with a feathery touch. “The doctors didn’t say that my war wound would prevent me from fathering children . . . only that it would be difficult.” He finished the piece and gazed at Rebecca.
“Are you sure, uncle? Is she really the right one?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“And what of Mr. McGowan?”
Her uncle let the piano fallboard drop with a reverberating smack against the keys.
“I have made enquiries. Within a few days I will know all that I need to know about Mr. Bret McGowan, but in the meantime . . .” He stepped over to his bookshelf, ran his index finger along the spines until he stopped at a thin leather-bound volume, and pulled it out. “Did Mr. McGowan visit you as I anticipated?”
“Yes, just as you said he would but why did you tell Edward not to answer the door?” She looked down at her shoes. “Mr. McGowan asked me to attend church with him tomorrow.”
Her uncle grinned. “Good . . . and will you continue to do as I’ve asked?” He opened up the book and flipped through the pages. “Edward requires a few more days before I have all the facts at my disposal, then I will finalize my plans.”
Uncle Cade returned to the piano and began another piece. The somber tone and haunting melody were unfamiliar to Rebecca. “Have you discussed your intentions toward Miss Caldwell with her father yet?”
He closed his eyes as he played. “You haven’t answered my question, my dear.”
Rebecca’s pulse quickened. Uncle Cade had been the only father she had really known since her parents died and all he was asking was to charm Bret McGowan until such time as . . . what? She didn’t know but she would have to trust him as she always had. “Of course, Uncle. Anything you ask.”
“Splendid,” he answered without looking away from the piano. “Arley Caldwell is one of my most devout followers. When I am certain the seed of my logic has taken root then all I will have to do is offer Gabrielle the water and light and to make it grow.”
Rebecca pursed her lips and stood. “Is there anything else you wish?”
“Yes. There is an empty medicine bottle on my desk. Please make polite enquiries at the city pharmacists as to the supplier. I’m not familiar with the brand or medicinal contents.”
Rebecca turned and spotted a small, brown bottle at the back corner of the desk. “Are you ill, Uncle?”
He laughed and increased his tempo. “Quite the contrary. I’ve never felt more vital and alive in my life.”
She picked up the small brown bottle and noticed the cap was missing. “Then . . . where did you get this?”
Uncle Cade did not reply for a few moments. “Did Edward tell you how beautifully you sang last night at Mr. McGowan’s ball?
Rebecca blushed. “No, but why should—”
Her uncle dismissed her question by finishing the piece with a single, thunderous chord. He opened his eyes and gazed at her, gleaming with an inner ferocity, an embittered force so penetrating in its depth, she felt transfixed under its power. “Now, listen carefully, for everything depends on what you do and say next. I will be away on Tuesday and Edward has been instructed to . . .”
Rebecca picked up the brown bottle carefully as though handling a vial of poison. Her uncle’s words drifted on the air like the voice in a dream.
“Alcohol will hasten the effect. One more week is all I ask, then my business with Bret McGowan will be finished . . . forever.”
Rebecca looked up and shivered at the dark menace in her uncle’s eyes, a piercing force that chilled her soul more than the singular purpose of his unyielding judgment.