freelance journalist. A
crime
journalist at that! Papa, who held most newspaper men in extremely low esteem, would have had a conniption fit. As it was, he was growing ever more frustrated that Samuel had not yet taken his California Bar examination.
“I, ah, was just curious,” I said rather unconvincingly. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, hoping no one would notice this slight departure from the absolute truth. I had, after all, been interested in meeting Madame Karpova and witnessing one of her famous séances. On the other hand, it was doubtful I would have traveled all the way out to Land’s End—and in one of the worst storms of the year—had it not been for Samuel’s persistence. “I’d heard so much about Madame Karpova, I thought it might be fun to see her for myself.”
“I knew it!” Frederick exclaimed, his voice accusing. “I warned you this would happen, Father, if you continued to be so permissive with Sarah. First, she had the gall to call herself an attorney, meddling in affairs no decent woman should even know about. Then she disgraced the entire family by opening her own law practice. And now she’s—she’s—”
“She’s taken to speaking to the dead,” said Henrietta, finishing her husband’s sentence. Her stern, angular face was red to the very roots of her mousy brown hair, and her gray eyes flashed with anger. “Really, Papa Woolson, you must do something to stop your daughter’s irrational behavior. Now that Frederick is a senator, we have a social position to maintain. Sarah is making a laughingstockof us in front of Frederick’s colleagues—indeed, in front of all our friends. Can no one control her?” Abruptly, she stopped speaking and looked around the table, embarrassed to find every eye fastened on her in varying degrees of alarm and distress.
Her face was flushed scarlet as she turned to me in a fury. “Just see where this conversation has led us, Sarah Woolson. As usual, you care nothing about your family, but only about your own irresponsible and selfish aims. I realize it is your birthday, Papa Woolson, but I must insist that we cease speaking of these dreadful matters before the evening is completely ruined.”
Henrietta took a deep breath, attempting, I assumed, to calm her nerves after this outbreak. Gradually, her red face returned to its normal pasty color, and we went on to speak of mundane matters, which captured no one’s interest and caused the remainder of the evening to pass in what felt like an eternity of boredom.
T he following afternoon, as I attempted to catch up on some correspondence in the library, Mama entered the room carrying an armful of material.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. I would appreciate your help deciding which fabric to choose for the new dining room drapes.”
Spreading the material across the backs of several chairs, she sat down next to me as I wrote at the escritoire.
Her request made me smile. “Shouldn’t you ask Celia, Mama? She’s the one with an eye for this sort of thing. You haven’t forgotten, have you, my attempt to remodel my bedroom several years ago? As I recall, you said the greens clashed so badly they made you seasick.”
“Oh, dear, I remember now,” she said, laughing. “Yes, perhaps I had better ask Celia to assist me.” She started to get up, then spied an envelope lying atop some letters I had yet to answer. “I don’t mean to pry, Sarah, but is that a letter from that nice young man, Pierce Godfrey?”
I groaned inwardly, certain that I was in for yet another lecture on matrimony. I had met Pierce Godfrey when I became involved in the Russian Hill murders several months ago, and Mama still had not recovered from my rejection of his offer of marriage. Shortly after his proposal, he had departed for Hong Kong, where he planned to open a new office for the shipping firm he owned with his brother Leonard.
“It’s true that we still correspond, Mama, but nothing has changed between us.
crime
journalist at that! Papa, who held most newspaper men in extremely low esteem, would have had a conniption fit. As it was, he was growing ever more frustrated that Samuel had not yet taken his California Bar examination.
“I, ah, was just curious,” I said rather unconvincingly. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, hoping no one would notice this slight departure from the absolute truth. I had, after all, been interested in meeting Madame Karpova and witnessing one of her famous séances. On the other hand, it was doubtful I would have traveled all the way out to Land’s End—and in one of the worst storms of the year—had it not been for Samuel’s persistence. “I’d heard so much about Madame Karpova, I thought it might be fun to see her for myself.”
“I knew it!” Frederick exclaimed, his voice accusing. “I warned you this would happen, Father, if you continued to be so permissive with Sarah. First, she had the gall to call herself an attorney, meddling in affairs no decent woman should even know about. Then she disgraced the entire family by opening her own law practice. And now she’s—she’s—”
“She’s taken to speaking to the dead,” said Henrietta, finishing her husband’s sentence. Her stern, angular face was red to the very roots of her mousy brown hair, and her gray eyes flashed with anger. “Really, Papa Woolson, you must do something to stop your daughter’s irrational behavior. Now that Frederick is a senator, we have a social position to maintain. Sarah is making a laughingstockof us in front of Frederick’s colleagues—indeed, in front of all our friends. Can no one control her?” Abruptly, she stopped speaking and looked around the table, embarrassed to find every eye fastened on her in varying degrees of alarm and distress.
Her face was flushed scarlet as she turned to me in a fury. “Just see where this conversation has led us, Sarah Woolson. As usual, you care nothing about your family, but only about your own irresponsible and selfish aims. I realize it is your birthday, Papa Woolson, but I must insist that we cease speaking of these dreadful matters before the evening is completely ruined.”
Henrietta took a deep breath, attempting, I assumed, to calm her nerves after this outbreak. Gradually, her red face returned to its normal pasty color, and we went on to speak of mundane matters, which captured no one’s interest and caused the remainder of the evening to pass in what felt like an eternity of boredom.
T he following afternoon, as I attempted to catch up on some correspondence in the library, Mama entered the room carrying an armful of material.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. I would appreciate your help deciding which fabric to choose for the new dining room drapes.”
Spreading the material across the backs of several chairs, she sat down next to me as I wrote at the escritoire.
Her request made me smile. “Shouldn’t you ask Celia, Mama? She’s the one with an eye for this sort of thing. You haven’t forgotten, have you, my attempt to remodel my bedroom several years ago? As I recall, you said the greens clashed so badly they made you seasick.”
“Oh, dear, I remember now,” she said, laughing. “Yes, perhaps I had better ask Celia to assist me.” She started to get up, then spied an envelope lying atop some letters I had yet to answer. “I don’t mean to pry, Sarah, but is that a letter from that nice young man, Pierce Godfrey?”
I groaned inwardly, certain that I was in for yet another lecture on matrimony. I had met Pierce Godfrey when I became involved in the Russian Hill murders several months ago, and Mama still had not recovered from my rejection of his offer of marriage. Shortly after his proposal, he had departed for Hong Kong, where he planned to open a new office for the shipping firm he owned with his brother Leonard.
“It’s true that we still correspond, Mama, but nothing has changed between us.
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