Saturday's Child Read online

  Climbing up one of the city's famous hills, Katie tried not to pant in an unladylike fashion. Why couldn't Colin have settled someplace flat? Reaching the top, she paused to catch her breath. She looked back down the hill she'd just climbed. The city spread out, seemingly at her feet. In the distance, she could see the bay. The sun had burned the last of the fog, leaving the waters blue and sparkling.

  But not as blue as Quentin Sterling's eyes.

  The thought slipped in, unwelcome. Exasperated, she turned away from the magnificence of the view and stepped out briskly. Almost too briskly. As she stepped off the curb to cross the street, a raucous blast of a horn sent her jumping back, nearly losing her balance as she sought the safety of the walkway. The automobile flew by her at a dizzying speed, the driver shrouded in coat, hat and goggles so that it was a wonder he could move at all beneath all those layers.

  He didn't bother to glance her way as he sped off down the street, the gleaming ivory of his vehicle catching the sun. Katie watched him out of sight, one hand pressed to her bosom as she tried to still the pounding of her heart.

  She'd not liked the new mode of travel even before her parents' death. She liked it even less now. Automobiles were nasty, smelly vehicles, little more than playthings for the rich and not likely to be anything more.

  Looking both ways, she hurried across the street. It must be nearly seven o'clock, and Mrs. Ferriweather believed in punctuality the way others believed in the power of prayer.

  Katie had never been late. In fact, she made it a point to be the first one to arrive more often than not. And she knew that her efforts had not gone unnoticed, which was exactly what she wanted. Mrs. Ferriweather's assistant was to be wed in the summer. Naturally, she'd be leaving her position then and Katie had hopes that Mrs. Ferriweather might consider her as a replacement for Miss Lewis. Her age would be a strike against her, even though Mrs. Ferriweather thought she was twenty-two.

  Still, she'd done her best to prove herself indispensable over the past few months. As an assistant instead of one of the seamstresses, she'd make more money and get the experience she would need if she was ever to open a shop of her own.

  When she'd come to San Francisco, she hadn't known anything beyond the fact that her future wasn't on the stage. She'd taken a long, hard look at her skills and put to use the only talent she had besides song and dance.

  Mrs. Ferriweather's establishment was much too elegant to be called a dress shop. She catered to only the very finest clientele, turning lengths of silk and soft woolens into sophisticated gowns in the latest fashions. At first, she'd refused to hire Katie, saying she didn't need another seamstress, but Katie had persisted, using every acting skill she'd acquired to make it seem as if Mrs. Ferriweather needed her more than she needed Mrs. Ferriweather. That had gotten her foot in the door and her talent with a needle had gotten her the job.

  So, for the past six months, she'd spent ten hours a day, six days a week plying her needle. The pay was better than she might have made elsewhere—nearly thirty-five dollars per month. And if she could take over Miss Lewis's position in the summer... Well, maybe she and Colin could afford to rent a little house somewhere. A real home.

  By noon, Katie's back ached. On one side of the room, several sewing machines hummed as the girls worked the treadles back and forth. Sometimes Katie worked at one of the machines but her talent for fine embroidery meant that she spent most of her time working by hand.

  Today, she was applying an elaborate design of soutache braid to a pale green jacket. The design had been traced onto the garment but it required hours of careful stitching to tack the braid into place.

  "Ladies, I have some wonderful news." Katie looked up as Mrs. Ferriweather stepped into the room, her ample frame fairly quivering with excitement. She waited until all eyes were on her, the hum of the sewing machines halted and every needle stilled.

  "We have been asked to provide a seamstress to assist in preparation for one of the season's biggest weddings. Miss Ann Sterling is to wed Mr. Jonathon Drake in less than three weeks. It seems that the seamstress the Sterlings had hired has fallen and broken her wrist. Such a pity," she added dutifully.

  Katie heard little beyond the name. Sterling. Was it possible that they were any relation to her Quentin Sterling? Not that he was really hers, of course, but she couldn't help but feel a bit possessive. There were probably several Sterling families in San Francisco, and there was no reason to think that he was a member of this particular one.

  "Since we have provided several gowns to Mrs. Sterling and she has been gracious enough to express her satisfaction with our work, she has requested that we provide her with a replacement for Miss Smith. Naturally, it is of utmost importance that our work be of the very highest quality. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that providing even a part of the trousseau for Miss Sterling would be quite a feather in our cap."

  She paused, beaming at her workers fondly. Katie hardly dared to breathe. She wanted to be the one chosen to work for the Sterlings. She wanted it more than she'd wanted anything in a long time. It was crazy. It probably wasn't even the same family. Even if it was, it could make no possible difference to her. A man like Quentin Sterling would never look at a girl like Katie McBride.

  But knowing it was foolish didn't stop her from wanting it. And when Mrs. Ferriweather's eyes fell on her, Katie was sure her desire must be plain to see.

  "It will certainly be a great deal of work, ladies. And long hours. Though much of the work will be done here in the shop, Mrs. Sterling wishes to have a seamstress in residence at her home. She's offered to provide a room where you'll be able to stay if you don't wish to travel home each night."

  Was it Katie's imagination or was Mrs. Ferriweather's eye lingering on her? She looked down, smoothing the crease from the fine wool, laying a section of braid in place absently. It was bad luck to want something so much.

  "Miss McBride?" Katie jumped at the sound of her name. She'd lost track of her employer's words.

  "Yes, ma'am?" She looked up, hoping her expression was calm.

  "I believe you live with your brother, don't you?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I do."

  "Would he object to you taking such a position temporarily? It would mean a few additional dollars, of course, to compensate for the extra hours you would be required to spend. Do you think he would allow you to take such an assignment?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Despite the breathless feeling that threatened to overcome her, Katie's voice was steady.

  Only someone who knew her very well indeed could have guessed at the foolish pounding of her heart. It couldn't possibly be the same family. But if it was?

  ❧

  "Maybe I shouldn't have come home." Tobias MacNamara looked up from the chessboard, focusing faded but still shrewd eyes on his grandson. Quentin was staring out the window at another foggy winter day. It had been almost a week since San Francisco had gotten more than a glimpse of the sun and Quentin had been getting more restless with every day that passed. But Tobias didn't think it was the gloomy weather that had his grandson as jumpy as a cat on coals.

  "Why did you come home, boy?"

  Quentin stirred restlessly, pretending not to notice when his grandfather moved an ivory knight in a manner that was unconventional, to say the least. One of the old man's chief pleasures was in seeing if he could sneak a few "unusual" moves past his opponent.

  Why had he come home?

  "I don't know." He moved a bishop, glowering at the ivory and ebony pieces as if his restlessness were their fault.

  "Must've had a reason, boy. You didn't come home for this shindig of your mother's." Tobias's contempt for the wedding preparations was dear. "If you had any sense, you'd have stayed away until Ann tied the knot and she and that weak-chinned nincompoop she's caught have sailed off on their honeymoon."

  Quentin smiled at the old man's disgust. "Jonathan is hardly a nincompoop, Grandfather. Ann tells me that he holds a responsible position in his fathe
r's shipping firm."

  "Hah! Jonathan Drake was born a nincompoop and he'll die a nincompoop. I knew his grandfather— had a claim near mine in 'forty-nine. Good man, a little too soft, but a good man. He started that business, made a good beginning and then got drunk one night, tripped getting out of his carriage and broke his fool neck. The son inherited and he's done fair enough with the business. Shipped around the Horn with them a time or two myself.

  "Went with a shipment of cowhides myself back in 'fifty-eight or so. Now that was a voyage." The old man's eyes grew distant with memories. "Caught us a storm just off the Horn. Captain thought we were done for but we made it out without losing a hand and I made a tidy profit on those hides. Now I hear they're talking about building some kind of Canal across Panama. That Frenchman tried and couldn't do it but maybe Roosevelt can figure out a way."

  "I don't think the president is actually planning on designing the thing himself, Grandfather."

  "Of course not. But none of this has anything to do with why you came home." Tobias waved his hand impatiently, returning to the original subject.

  "I thought the least I could do was return for my sister's wedding," Quentin said. "Besides, winter in Wyoming can be a bit harrowing. I decided I could use a break."

  "A break, is it? Or did you want a taste of your old life again? That sniveling wimp of a cousin of yours couldn't wait to tell your mother all about your return to your wicked ways."

  Quentin's smile held an unpleasant edge. "It was quite a surprise to find Joseph across the table from me.

  "He seemed to think it an unpleasant one."

  "A man who plays as badly as he does shouldn't play at all."

  "Do you still blame him for young Alice's death?" Tobias asked gruffly.

  Quentin's fingers tightened over the captured rook he'd been toying with. The look he shot the old man would have been enough to set a lesser man back on his heels.

  "I do not wish to discuss Alice."

  "No, I know you don't. You haven't discussed her in eight years, not since she died. Well, time is supposed to heal all wounds and I think it's time you took a look at that one. You may find it's healed more than you think.

  "And though I think Joseph Landers is a liar and a cheat and probably not above murder, the girl's death wasn't his doing."

  "Why are you bringing this up? And why are you defending Landers? As I recall, you've threatened more than once to forbid him to ever set foot in this house again."

  "That I have. And if it hadn't been for your mother's weeping and carrying on, I'd have stuck by that. How a daughter of mine could be so fond of such an irritating little twerp..." He broke off shaking his head over the vagaries of females. "But that should be enough to convince you Alice's death wasn't his fault. You know how your mother felt about Alice, how she felt about your engagement. The fact is, boy, there was nothing anyone could have done but what Landers did."

  "He left her there alone," Quentin said, his jaw tight.

  "He went for help," Tobias corrected. "When she fell through the ice, he couldn't pull her up himself. That damned gown must have weighed fifty pounds and the ice was rotten. You couldn't have done anything but what he did."

  Quentin stood up, the memories roiling inside him. He couldn't argue with his grandfather's words, but neither could he bring himself to agree with them. For so many years he'd focused his anger on Joseph Landers and heaven knew the man deserved it on a hundred other counts. He'd simply never let himself accept that, in this one instance, he might be innocent of wrongdoing.

  Because, if Joseph wasn't to blame, he might have to accept some of the responsibility for Alice's death himself. If he hadn't gone away... If they'd married as everyone had expected...

  Quentin stared out at the wispy fog that draped Nob Hill in a gossamer blanket, but his eyes were on the past. He'd been in the Yukon, on the tail end of the great gold rush when word of his fiancee's death had reached him. By the time he received the letter, she'd been dead and buried nearly a month.

  She'd gone to New York with his family for the New Year celebrations, gone to see in the last year of the old century. She'd been ice-skating with several of her friends, including his sister Ann, hardly more than a child then. When she'd skated too near the center of the lake, the ice—not yet solid enough to bear her weight—had given way.

  Joseph had gone for help, but by the time they were able to pull Alice from the water, she was half-frozen. The chill turned into pneumonia and she'd died within a week. There'd been nothing anyone could do, everyone had agreed on that. It was a terrible tragedy.

  Quentin had known Alice Mason since they were children. And he'd known they were going to marry since he was fifteen and she was twelve. They might have been wed already but for the restlessness that stirred in him, an urge to see more of the world. And Alice had understood that restlessness. She'd be waiting, she told him.

  So he'd gone to Alaska. Less than a year before, word had come of a great gold strike on the Klondike. The reports were that nearly two tons of gold had been unloaded on the Seattle docks. Some said it was the richest gold strike in the world, with nuggets just lying on the ground waiting to be picked up by any enterprising young man.

  Quentin was not so foolish as to believe that, but it seemed as good a place as any to start seeing the world. And see it he had. He'd seen men gone mad with gold fever, unable to believe that their fortune wasn't just lying about. He'd found a little gold himself, barely enough to pay his expenses, and he'd counted himself lucky to find that much.

  But the price he'd paid had been far too high. He'd come home only long enough to visit Alice's grave, needing to see it before he could make himself believe in the reality of her death. And then he'd left again. There was a war beginning with Spain and he'd joined a bunch of cowboys, college students and misfits, who'd come to be called the Rough Riders.

  And when Cuba was safely free of Spain's domination, he'd left the service and traveled around the world, just as he'd planned before Alice's death. He'd gambled in every back alley in every port he'd visited. He'd worked his passage more often than purchased it and he'd spent what money he made. He'd been home a time or two to listen to his father tell him he was going to hell in a handbasket, to have his mother look at him with tears in her eyes and his grandfather with understanding.

  He turned from the window abruptly. "Maybe Alice's death wasn't Joseph's fault, but it's no doubt the first time he's been blamed for something he wasn't guilty of."

  "I'll not argue with that." Tobias leaned back in his chair, reaching for one of the cigars the doctor had forbidden him to smoke. When a man got to his age, there were few enough pleasures in life. He wasn't going to give up one of those left him.

  He lit the cigar, puffing at the rich Cuban tobacco for a moment as he watched his grandson move restlessly around the room. Something was on the boy's mind, there was no doubt of that. Of all his family, Quentin was the only one worth a damn. His daughter was an empty-headed fool, who'd married a stodgy businessman with the imagination of a turnip. His granddaughter hadn't a thought in her head but fashion, and now her wedding.

  But Quentin—Quentin was the son he'd never had, a true kindred spirit. Let the rest of them wring their hands and weep and wail over the boy wasting his life. He'd understood Quentin's anger, his pain and his need to work it out in his own way. Everything had turned out well enough.

  Four years ago, he'd won title to a ranch in Wyoming, drawing to fill an inside straight at poker. Tobias smiled at the memory, remembering a time when he'd drawn to fill his own inside straights, though cards had never been his weakness. But there was more than one way to gamble and he'd done his share.

  Maybe Quentin had always wanted a ranch, or maybe he was just tired of roaming the world, belonging nowhere. Whatever the reason, he hadn't gambled the ranch away sight unseen, nor had he sold it. He'd gone to take a look at it and there he'd stayed.

  Until now.

  "You still haven
't told me why you came home."

  Quentin looked up from the fist-sized piece of gold ore he'd been studying. The first chunk of ore his grandfather had ever mined, taken from the Sutter's Mill strike back in 'forty-nine, the strike that had founded the family fortune. How many times had he heard that story, sitting on a hassock at his grandfather's knee, listening wide-eyed to tales of days gone by?

  He set the ore down, slipping his hand into the pocket of his neat gray trousers. If anyone would understand his purpose in coming back here, it was Tobias.

  "I've decided to marry."

  Tobias said nothing for a moment, puffing on his cigar, studying Quentin through the veil of smoke. "Well, you're of an age for it. A man should have a wife and children. It steadies him, gives him a purpose in life. Who's the girl?"

  "I don't know yet. I've come home to find a wife."

  "Have you mentioned this to your mother?"

  "No. I thought I'd wait until after Ann's wedding. Once that's done, I thought maybe she'd like to throw a few parties or something, introduce me to some eligible females. I've met few enough of those in my wanderings," he said with a half smile.

  Tobias studied the glowing end of his cigar for a moment before fixing his gaze on Quentin. "Don't do it, boy. Don't say a word to your mother about this. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm sure she'd be delighted to have a party or two. In fact, she'd probably throw a ball if you wanted. But you're not going to find a wife in this house."

  Startled, Quentin crossed the room to lean his arms on the back of the richly upholstered wing chair. The chessboard lay forgotten between them.

  "Why not? You're not going to try and tell me that Mother doesn't know any eligible females?"

  "She knows plenty of eligible females, but it all depends on what you want them to be eligible for. The girls she'd introduce you to would know all about going to parties and running a big house with plenty of servants. They'll know just how many spoons to put beside each plate and what sort of crystal is the most fashionable in any given year. Are you planning on that sort of life?"