California
June 1908
Elizabeth King held her fingers against the ivory keys, refusing to stir as the final chord faded and silence descended on the parlor. Were God ever to speak to her, she imagined it would be in the precious instant after a last note died away and before an audience responded. The moment preserved a holy space, as if the breath of divinity hung in the air.
No voice arrived today, but there was no audience either.
She ran her fingertips along the cool surface, the black and white pattern softening as her eyes blurred with tears. God wouldn’t converse with the likes of her, anyway.
After three years of intense instruction, every note conjured Tobias’s memory—his touch. Elizabeth sprang from the stool and stalked to the window, staring out at the darkening clouds. She couldn’t let her mind travel to those memories. Before she knew it, she’d be at his door.
“Turn your back on me, and you’re finished. You’ll never perform again.”
She’d done the right thing. So why did the shame still cling, like a vine curling around her soul?
Her mother swept into the room, a cream-colored apron tied over her flowered dress. “Elizabeth—you aren’t dressed yet?”
Elizabeth pulled her gaze from the window. “Dressed?”
“Have you forgotten? Mr. McKinley is joining us for supper. I’ve been trying to get the attorney to come here from San Francisco for months.”
The man’s name sent a shiver along Elizabeth’s skin, like a discordant note in the middle of a Bach concerto. Of course, she’d forgotten—if she’d remembered, she’d have left earlier. “I promised Lillian I would attend the suffrage meeting with her this evening.”
“You attend too many of those silly political gatherings. They’ve ruined you for polite society.”
“Mother, you know I’ve never cared for ‘polite society.’ That’s your arena.”
“Your father spoiled all of you children. I thought you, being the youngest, might turn out all right.” Her mother straightened one of the cushions.
A lump formed in Elizabeth’s throat. Even though she’d been young when he passed away, her father’s determination and generous nature shaped her heart. “Your talent is a gift from God, Elizabeth. It brings Him glory.” Not anymore.
“Hurry, now. Mr. McKinley will be here soon.”
No escape. Perhaps she could make excuses after supper. Elizabeth climbed the stairs to her room and dug through the wardrobe for a suitable dress. She couldn’t choose anything too nice for the cantankerous old lawyer.
Her fingers lingered on her favorite silk gown. The navy blue had gleamed under the auditorium’s electric lights as she’d curtsied to a large crowd. Elizabeth shoved it back and pulled out a russet skirt and matching vest instead. Her stage days were past. If all she had to look forward to were dull evenings in the company of stodgy attorneys, she might as well dress the part.
Her sister, Ruby, had once described Silas McKinley as being akin to a moray eel, and the image cemented itself in Elizabeth’s mind. They hadn’t seen him in over a year—not since he divulged that most of her late father’s assets had been lost in the fires following the San Francisco earthquake.
With her musical dreams crumbling about her ears and the family in financial crisis, Elizabeth needed a new direction for her life—and fast. Perhaps this evening’s suffrage meeting would give her some ideas.
***
The Sacramento streetcar glided to a stop as Charles studied the King family’s files. The case appeared straightforward, probably the reason his uncle had chosen it for Charles’s first consultation. He set his jaw and leafed through the documents for the hundredth time. He’d almost memorized them on the ferry, but good preparation prevented surprises.
A well-dressed young woman climbed up the steps, her eyes scanning the conveyance.
Only one seat remained open—next to him. Charles’s throat tightened. Why couldn’t she be an elderly spinster or even a middle-aged mother with children? His law school elocution classes had never touched on the art of conversation with young socialites. These lace-bedecked, sweet-smelling mysteries befuddled him.
Her eyes settled on the seat and she flounced his direction, gripping the rail as the streetcar shifted into motion.
He swallowed, scooting over a few inches to allow ample room for her layers of skirts.
“This rain is incorrigible.” She unpinned her enormous hat, and set it on her lap, running slim fingers over the sodden peacock plumes. “They’re ruined. I knew it.”
Was she speaking to herself or to him? He probably should refrain from pointing out the fact that birds were quite accustomed to rainfall—until you removed their plumage and sewed it to women’s hats.
She turned to face him. “I’d hoped the rains would hold off until this evening. I do hate conducting excursions in poor weather.”
Charles tucked the documents into his valise and withdrew today’s issue of The San Francisco Call. “I believe the shower’s letting up.”
He was rewarded with a dazzling smile. Apparently, he’d said the right thing—for once.
She leaned closer, her gaze drawn to the paper. “Now that’s intriguing.”
Charles lifted the periodical, the headlines dominated by the San Francisco graft trials. A young woman interested in politics? Could he be so lucky? “Cleaning up the city seems to be one of the district attorney’s main goals. It’s shameful how much city money has been diverted to lining politicians’ pockets, especially considering how many still suffer from the 1906 quake,” he offered.
The young woman wrinkled her nose. “No . . . ” She jabbed a finger at a small column on the right-hand side. “Governor Gillett’s wife is hosting a dinner party for visiting Navy Admirals. I wonder what she’ll be serving?”
Charles’s stomach sank as he lowered the paper to his lap. “I couldn’t hazard a guess.”
“I bought this hat because she wears one just like it.” She tugged at the plumes. “My father took me to a state dinner last month. Dreadfully boring, but it gave me an opportunity to view the season’s new styles.” Her lips tipped upward, eyes shining as she pinned the ridiculous item atop her coiled hair.
“Well that’s . . . something.” He turned to the window, gauging how many more blocks until he reached Mrs. King’s home.
“Oh, there’s my stop. Nice visiting with you.” She bounced up the aisle, leaving a cloud of rose petal fragrance in her wake.
Charles shook his head. She’d taken the streetcar rather than walk four blocks? Understanding the female species might prove beyond his grasp.
Charles stepped off at the next stop, lifting the umbrella over his head to protect his new tailored suit from the drizzle. Uncle Silas had demanded Charles discard the typical Sears, Roebuck & Company
