Like Moths to a Flame by Margaret P.

(2016)

Chapter One (Words: 3,327)

"I've decided to go to San Francisco." Scott sat down at the supper table and helped himself to what was left of the braised beef and onions.

"Good. Talking to you has been like talking to Barranca lately; only he flicks an ear or shakes his head now and again so I know he's listening." Johnny grinned, but Scott turned away. He wasn't in the mood for jokes.

Instead he gave his sister-in-law a small smile. "Emily's right. Katie wouldn't write to her before writing me—not normally—not even a note as short as the one received today. Either her letter has got lost or something is very wrong."

"I'm sure we can spare you for a few days." Murdoch glanced around the table. Then everyone lowered their eyes to their food and continued to eat. Katie had returned to San Francisco immediately after the fight in Morro Coyo nearly two weeks ago; further thoughts about her silence since were best kept to themselves.

Scott rose at daybreak, aiming to be away before anyone else got up, but his father was waiting for him in the great room when he came inside for his saddle bags.

Murdoch followed him out. "It will be all right, son."

"You can't know that, Murdoch, but I appreciate the thought." Scott tightened the last strap on the saddle bags and mounted Ulysses. He wished he was as certain of the situation as Emily claimed to be. Mostly he agreed with her, but he'd been unexpectedly hurt once before, and the memory kept second guessing all the arguments he put forward for there being a harmless explanation. Katie was not Julie, but…He rubbed his eyes. Added to all the possibilities on that score, nobody knew what he did about the Eliot family. Damn it, why couldn't he have fallen in love with a local girl? Everything would have been so much easier. "All being well, I'll be back late tomorrow." His father nodded, but Scott saw the tightness in his jaw. "Don't worry, Murdoch, whatever happens, I won't be leaving Lancer."

Murdoch managed a half-hearted smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You must do what is best for you, Scott. Safe journey."

Scott rode south to pick up the early train. One way or the other he should know the truth before supper time. Johnny, damn him, had put the idea in his head that Katie could be trying to guilt him into returning to Boston with her, or perhaps moving to San Francisco. Scott wasn't blind to Katie's skill of making people do things they never intended—Old Man Reynolds had agreed to send Harriet to a proper college thanks to Katie—but that was good. Johnny was just twisting things. Katie wouldn't try to persuade Scott back to a life that would make him miserable.

When the train arrived in San Francisco he hired a horse and cab from the station, and by quarter to twelve he was beginning the climb up her street.

The cab slowed to pass a parked butcher's van and then jolted to a standstill. Scott leaned out to see what was happening. A Landau coming down the hill was having trouble with one of its horses; it had crossed to the wrong side of the road.

"Sorry. First time out," the driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins and giving the novice a flick of his whip.

The cab driver cursed and wrenched on his brake until the open carriage passed.

A gentleman about Scott's age reclined on the long leather seat. He smoothed his moustache and raised a silver topped cane by way of greeting. Scott touched his hat in reply. The man must be new to California, judging by the clothes. Scott hadn't worn a get-up like that since leaving Boston.

The stranger had one thing right though. If Scott had been thinking straight, he'd have taken the time to find an open carriage. It was the perfect day for a drive in the park, and it would have given him and Katie a real chance to talk. Maybe they could transfer to one later after he picked her up. He would see what she wanted to do; as long as they could talk privately, he didn't mind.

"Whoa there." The cab driver stopped the carriage outside Katie's uncle's house, and Scott jumped out.

"Please wait. I shouldn't be long." He ran up the steps and knocked on the door, buffing the top of his boots on the back of his trouser legs and brushing the dust from his jacket as he tried to get a glimpse of Katie or any of her relatives through the front windows.

"Mr Lancer, sir. How do you do?" Maisie, the housemaid, opened the door and bobbed a curtsey. "I do beg your pardon, sir, but the family is not at home. The McIntyres and their guests, Mr and Mrs Laurence Eliot, have gone to dine with the Campbells. Miss Eliot is at St Mary's."

"St Mary's?"

"Yes, sir. Teaching them Orientals English, as she does, sir. She weren't supposed to today, mind—it's not her turn—but Mrs Telford sent word she was poorly and asked Miss Eliot if she would stand-in for her."

Scott frowned. He knew Katie was volunteering at the mission. He'd found out after the incident with Mary Lou in Green River. He'd been scared stiff Katie would be mad at him for ever visiting a prostitute, or for causing her to come face to face with one, but she'd been surprisingly broadminded. "I'm sure we both did things before we kept company that we wouldn't do now."

"I'm relieved you feel that way, but I'm sorry Mary Lou approached you like that. I don't expect you've had much experience of…well, you know."

"Perhaps not, but as I've told you before, my days are not all tea parties and shopping, Scott. Now is probably a good time to tell you I teach English at St Mary's. When I was here with Mamma in March Mrs Zhang told me she learned to speak English there. It seemed like something useful I could do with my time, so I found out more when I got back to San Francisco. Rachel Telford has volunteered at the mission for a couple of years now; she introduced me to the woman in charge. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. But I didn't imagine…you do know what most of those Oriental women do for a living?"

"I do. And the conditions are dreadful. Not at all like your Mrs Winslow's where there is some choice in the matter." Katie looked very cross, but then she laughed at herself and spoke more calmly. "Only girls from the expensive brothels are permitted to come to the church for lessons. I would do more to help the ones in the cribs, but Uncle Will forbids me to go into Chinatown proper, and as his guest I must take his wishes into account."

"Indeed?" Scott raised an eyebrow. That should mean Katie never ventured further into Chinatown than the mission office in the church basement, but if that were the case how did she know about cribs?

"You needn't look at me like that. I respect my uncle."

"I'm sure you do. I'm just not convinced you always obey your uncle."

"What the eye doesn't see…"

"Katie, Will knows San Francisco a lot better than you do. Chinatown is not a safe place for a white woman; it isn't that safe for men."

Katie pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you for caring, but I assure you I'm very sensible. Now stop looking so stern and see to your poor horse." She backed away from him towards the hacienda before he could say anything else. "I'll see you later. I need to talk to Emily and Teresa about flowers."

Still frowning, Scott had watched her cross the yard. Pig-headed and oblivious to her own safety. He'd always admired her ability to manage a conversation, but she usually exercised her talents against others not him. An earlier discussion about 'little secrets' sprang to mind. Assuming they were okay in other respects, they needed to agree a few ground rules.

"Can I give Miss Eliot a message for you, Mr Lancer?" Standing patiently in the doorway, Maisie brought him back to the problem at hand: Scott was in San Francisco to talk to Katie and Katie wasn't at home.

"When do you expect her back?"

"Well, sir, as I told the other gentleman not five minutes ago, Dawkins left here at eleven thirty on the dot to escort her home, but I don't know if they'll come straight back. Miss Eliot often wants to do errands along the way."

"Other gentleman?"

"Yes, sir." Maisie flushed. "Refined, foreign gentleman, wearing a top hat; very handsome if you don't mind me saying so, sir—called me 'Miss', like I was a lady." She blushed some more and crimped the ruffled edge of her starched white apron between her fingers. "He was so disappointed Miss Eliot wasn't at home; he said he'd hoped to surprise her. He left a calling card and made me promise faithfully to give it to her as soon as she arrived back."

"What was his name?"

"I don't know, Mr Lancer. I don't read good meself."

"May I see the card?"

The maid looked a little doubtful but then brightened. "Well, seeing it's you, Mr Lancer. I don't expect there can be any harm."

She disappeared inside. Scott fidgeted on the doorstep. It must have been the guy he'd passed at the bottom of the hill in the Landau. Who the hell was he?

A moment later Maisie reappeared with a small white card. It was of the finest quality, engraved, with a name at its centre, an address in the bottom left corner, and the top right corner turned down.

"Sir Bertram Halford, 24 Lancaster Gate, London."

"Oh, my goodness, is he really a 'Sir', Mr Lancer? Wait until cook hears that I've spoken to a real, live lord." She clapped her hand over her mouth, and looked wide-eyed at Scott. "As a friend of Miss Eliot's, do you think he might come to supper?"

"It's possible."

"Oh my. Please excuse me, but I must warn cook now. She'll want to get in something special. Good day to you, Mr Lancer." Maisie closed the door, and Scott heard the tap, tap of her shoes fast disappearing across the tiled floor of the McIntyres' reception hall.

Well, that showed him where he stood in the pecking order. Damn it, that's all he needed: one of Katie's old admirers waiting in the wings, hoping he'd fall on his face. Then again, the fellow couldn't be anyone too special; she'd never mentioned a Sir Bertram, and…Hang on a minute, maybe she had. Scott paused on the bottom step. Bertie—the 'possible alliance' she'd joked about at Woodward Gardens. She made no secret of liking him. But he wasn't interested in her—she said. No romantic feelings either way, she said. Well, she would say that when she was on an outing with Scott, wouldn't she? At the time, it didn't seem to matter; the gentleman was in England after all. But now he was here, and a man didn't travel halfway around the world to see a young woman he was just friends with.

Bertie had been favoured by Katie's relatives. Scott knew the more politically powerful ones had been digging into his affairs. It hadn't surprised him at all to read in Katie's note to Emily that Laurence Eliot was in town. A man, sounding suspiciously like a Pinkerton agent, had been sniffing around the towns near the ranch too. For Katie's sake Scott hadn't done anything about it; he had nothing to hide after all. But this was different. If the Eliots had a hand in bringing Sir Bertram Halford to San Francisco, it was very different indeed.

Scott returned to the cab. "St Mary's Church." If he was quick he might reach the mission building before Katie left. Suddenly the need to talk to her seemed more urgent than ever. Bertie—what kind of name was that for a man? Trust him to have a title. If Scott remembered rightly, Katie said her friend Bertie wasn't a lord. But if he still got to call himself 'Sir', what difference did it make? Wasn't the shootout in Morro Coyo bad enough without having to compete for her favour with an aristocrat? A man like that could give Katie a world she was more accustomed to—plus extras—on a platter.

"Stop!" Scott banged on the outside of the door to get the driver's attention. As soon as the cab came to a halt, he jumped out and grabbed the arm of a man looking in the window of a sporting goods store. "Dawkins, what are you doing here? Where's Miss Eliot? Maisie said you were sent to escort her home."

"I was, Mr Lancer, but a gentleman she knew arrived as we were leaving and invited her to lunch." Dawkins shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. "Halford, he called himself—Sir Bertram Halford. He said he would see her home in time for tea. I am to give Mrs McIntyre the message."

"Damn." Scott looked up at the sky and tried to think.

"Yes, sir, I agree with you. I'd say you should go after them. It ain't right, these fancy foreign fellas in their flash carriages sweet talking our American girls and turning their heads." Scott stared at Dawkins; what did the man mean? "Miss Eliot seemed mighty glad to see him. She…Well, Mr Lancer, I just don't think another fella should turn up unannounced like that. She's your girl."

Dawkins's words were like a dose of smelling salts. Scott was being ridiculous. He'd been letting his anxiety about Katie and his imagination get the better of him. Katie said Bertie was just a friend, and Scott needed to believe her. Trust went both ways. "Thanks, Dawkins. I appreciate your concern, but Sir Bertram and Miss Eliot are simply old friends."

Dawkins blinked, touched his hat and lowered his eyes. "If you say so, sir."

Scott gritted his teeth. He wished Dawkins looked more convinced, but he forced himself to sound cheerful. "I've been looking forward to meeting Sir Bertram. Do you have any idea where they're dining?"

"He told his driver to take them 'back to the club', sir. They headed that way." Dawkins pointed towards the town centre.

Scott returned to his cab, trying hard to unravel the knot in his stomach with logic, reason and a few deep breaths. "Do you know a club near Union Square where a gentleman might take a lady for lunch?

"Not a club—unless…There's a new one called the Bohemian—all writers, artists and the like."

"We'll try it." From what Scott knew about Halford, it sounded possible. Katie had said he'd escorted her and a friend to all the best shows, and introduced them to 'an interesting variety of people'.

The Bohemian Club had taken over premises on the corner of Taylor Street and Post, right in the heart of the city, and it didn't take long to get there. The large, timber building was one of those erected in the 1850s. Murdoch's land agent friend, Alfred Burke, had once told Scott they were all built with similar internal layout: a basement kitchen and offices, large rooms on the first floor suitable for reception or dining, two further storeys with smaller rooms and an attic above. The perfect set up for a private club.

"Shall I wait, sir?"

"No, thanks, if my friends aren't here they'll probably be in a restaurant nearby. How much do I owe you?"

As Scott got out his wallet, a gentleman in a brown suit and bowler hat descended the stone steps and commandeered his cab. "The office of the Daily Alta California, please; quick as you can."

Scott retraced the man's steps and rapped hard on the club's black lacquered door. He waited impatiently, his mouth beginning to water from the smells of steak and alcohol wafting out of a partially open window. Through the gap and the owl etched into the frosted glass of the lower pane, Scott could see gentlemen relaxing over good food and good company, some in their shirt sleeves or no-nonsense suits, and some in velvet jackets and colourful cravats.

"Good day, sir." A uniformed concierge answered the door, glancing momentarily at Scott's lapel. "Are you a member, sir?"

"No, but…" Before Scott could say more, a flamboyant-looking fellow with a red cravat and a feather in his slouch hat excused his way out. Scott began again. "I'm looking for Sir Bertram Halford, who might be a member. I believe he was bringing a young lady back to his club to dine, and my cab driver thought it could be this one."

"I'm sorry, sir, the Bohemian Club is for gentlemen only. May I suggest you try one of the better restaurants in the vicinity of the Square? As the gentleman is from high society, he would probably take his guest to one of those."

Blast. Scott turned away from the door and descended the stairs. It wasn't totally unexpected, but it could take him ages to find Katie and Halford, if he found them at all. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed the cab. If he didn't locate them within half an hour, maybe he would hire another one to take him back to the McIntyre's residence. He could wait for Katie to come home. His chances of talking to her there alone were pretty slim though, and it would be too late to go out again without a chaperone, even supposing the family didn't have plans for the evening. Scott had intended to take the morning train back to the San Joaquin. Could he spare another day? Murdoch and Johnny wouldn't mind, but the ranch was short-handed; Scott didn't like to be the one making extra work for everyone. And even if he could stay longer—and even though he did trust Katie—the idea of leaving her alone with Halford for a whole afternoon left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Did I hear you ask after Sir Bertram Halford?" The man with the feather in his hat had stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette.

"Yes, do you know him?"

"I know of him. Harry Wexford has talked of nothing else for the past week. He was some kind of patron to him in London, and an investor in our current production."

"Harry Wexford?" The name rang a bell, but Scott couldn't quite put his finger on where he'd heard it.

"The playwright. I'm Claud Bellingham—you may have heard of me?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't go to the theatre much these days."

Bellingham shrugged. "No matter. I'm the lead in Wexford's new play, Like Moths to a Flame. It opens at the California on Thursday evening. Wexford's directing. Now this baronet fellow has turned up, he's ordered extra rehearsals. Everything must be absolutely perfect on opening night; I won't even be able to fart between scenes." The actor exhaled smoke and offered Scott a cigarette.

"No, thanks. Do you know where I might find Sir Bertram?"

"The Occidental." Bellingham exhaled again and picked some lint off the velvet lapel of his jacket, adjusting an owl-shaped pin while he was at it. "When Wexford left here ten minutes ago he said he was dining at The Occidental with Sir Bertram before returning to the theatre. They won't let you in there dressed like that though; dashing but dishevelled is not The Occidental's style." Bellingham winked. He knocked some ash from his cigarette into the gutter and sauntered off down the street.

Notes:

1. This story is part of the Eliot Series and follows Of Mice and Scott Lancer, 2016. It also has links to Circumstances, 2015, and From Highlands to Homecoming, 2015.

2. This story stems from the Lancer TV series created by Samuel A. Peeples and written by him and others. It includes references to events, characters or dialogue mentioned in: The Homecoming (Pilot movie)/ The Highriders, Series 1, Episode 1; Legacy, Series 2, Episode 10; Zee, Series 2, Episode 2.

3. Here is a reference about the work and attitude of Presbyterian women with regards Chinese prostitution in 1870s San Francisco for anyone interested: books?id=f5o_t7VxHYAC&pg=PA203&lpg=PA203&dq=san+francisco+chinese+prostitutes+1870s+presbyterian&source=bl&ots=NA7kNAPuWo&sig=cSSNABTRS6GW7misyI_-jcmhBPA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiD26mWr5fPAhWDXRQKHfpZCVAQ6AEIITAB#v=onepage&q=san%20francisco%20chinese%20prostitutes%201870s%20presbyterian&f=false

4. The Bohemian Club was founded in San Francisco in April, 1872. Its original building was burned down as a result of the San Francisco earthquake in 1906, and a new building was later built on the same site. My description of the 1872 clubhouse is purely fictional.