Jade Star (9 page)

Jules said now, pointing toward a small knot of native women on the dock, all of them dressed garishly, “There are the prostitutes. But I don't see my father or any of his friends—many times he goes to the dock when a whaler comes in and rants and screams about Satan, and evil, and disease.”

“I don't know much about the Satan or evil part,” Saint said calmly, ignoring the bitter irony in her voice, “but I sure as hell know about the disease.” He saw that the two sailors who were at the oars of the tender were already waving and shouting toward the women.

There were about a half-dozen other ships, most of them whalers. The long, narrow dock was bustling with local people hawking wares, and here and there in the distance Saint could see a black frock coat. Either a businessman or a preacher, he thought, or one of those useless diplomats from Oahu.

“Come,” he said, and helped her out of the tender. Her hand was cold and clammy, and he added gently, “I'll be with you, Jules.”

She allowed him to assist her, then pulled her hand away. They walked into Wharf Street. Saint glanced briefly toward the fort, built in the early 1830's and now used mostly as a prison. It was looking a bit the worse for wear, he thought. Dwight Baldwin's home looked as neat as a pin, set back from Front Street, its paint fresh, its garden neat and green. He and Baldwin, a Protestant medical missionary, had been good friends during Saint's stay in Lahaina. He started to ask Jules about him, when she suddenly pulled off her bonnet and shook her head. Her bright flame hair drew several glances, then a loud gasp.

“Juliana! My God, it is you!”

Saint turned to see a young man staring at Jules as if looking at a ghost. It was John Bleecher, the planter's son. He wasn't pimple-faced now, Saint noticed. Indeed, he was a handsome young man, well-formed, open-faced, and at present, pale as death.

Jules was very still. She moved closer to Saint, saying only, “Hello, John. How have you been?”

John roused himself. “Saint? Dr. Morris? Yes, it
is
you. Juliana, what happened? Everyone has believed you dead. Kanola's body . . . well, it washed up on
shore, and since you had been seen with her, we all thought—”

“Yes, I know,” Jules said, interrupting him in a curt voice. “She's dead, but I'm not. I . . . well, I survived.”

“I don't understand,” John said helplessly, wishing he could fling himself upon the pale, beautiful girl he'd wanted for two years now. But there was something terribly wrong. What was she doing with Saint Morris? He'd been gone for a long time now, five years.

“John,” Saint said pleasantly, “why don't you help us with the luggage? I want to take Jules to her home.”

“Jules . . . ? Oh, yes, certainly.”

Saint watched the young man pick up Jules's one small valise. No, he thought, she couldn't marry him. He wouldn't suit her; he wouldn't understand her. He would stifle her spirit without realizing what he was doing. He would also paw her endlessly and scare her witless.

Saint shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. It was none of his business, after all. He would stay the two days the
Carolina
would be in port, then return to California. He would never see her again. Something inside him rebelled at the thought.

Etienne DuPres's house was on Luakini Street, just one block behind the Baldwin house. It was set back from the busy street, its white clapboards gleaming in the sun. Saint heard Jules draw in her breath when she saw her brother, Thomas, clad only in trousers and an open white shirt, turn onto the street and wave to John Bleecher. Saint saw the shock on his face, but Thomas, unlike John, showed no
hesitation. He gave a loud whoop and ran full tilt to his sister and swung her up into his arms.

“Thomas,” Jules whispered, burying her face in her brother's neck.

Saint saw the front door to the DuPres house open and Aurelia DuPres slowly walk onto the narrow veranda. Saint saw her clutch at her flat bosom, then faint dead away. He'd forgotten how damned vaporish the woman was. Doubtless all the wretched clothes and tight corset she wore didn't help matters.

By the time he reached her side, there were people everywhere, and pandemonium.

 

Saint had also forgotten how much he disliked Etienne DuPres. There was no joy in the man, only grim, unremitting purpose. He was tall and very thin, his black broadcloth suit making him appear gaunt. His eyes were not sparkling and alive like his daughter's, but a pale cold gray. His hair was thinner now, the black streaked with white.

They were all seated in the small parlor, Jules's mother fluttering her hands, Sarah, Jules's older sister, silent and stiff, watching her sister, her lips pursed. Thomas was carrying on in his exuberant fashion, seated cross-legged on the floor beside Jules's chair. Even though he was dark-haired and tall like his father, he had Jules's openness and joy.

Etienne DuPres stood tall and silent next to a fireplace that was never used. He'd hugged his daughter briefly, then set her away. For a moment Saint thought he looked to be in pain—a good sign, he thought, that he'd missed and grieved for his younger daughter. Etienne DuPres said now to Saint, “How did you get my daughter?”

Saint smiled toward Jules and said pleasantly, “You are the luckiest family alive. Your daughter is safe and well.”

Before he could explain further, Reverend DuPres said, his voice even colder, “We understood that Juliana had drowned. She was forbidden to swim, but that is another matter. I would like to know what happened to her, and how you got her.”

“I was taken by a man who wanted to sell me,” Jules said. “In San Francisco. Michael saved me.”

There was a moan from Mrs. DuPres, and Saint prayed the damned woman wouldn't faint again. Sarah said in a shrill voice, “Taken? Whatever do you mean? Why would anyone do that?”

Jules said in her clear, sweet voice, “His name is Jameson Wilkes. I believe you've met him, Father. He decided I was well-enough-looking, and took me to San Francisco. He wanted to sell me to a man so I would be a mistress.”

Thomas DuPres roared, “Damnation, Jules! That miserable bastard . . . God, I'll kill him!”

“You will be silent, Thomas,” Reverend DuPres said. “So,” he continued, looking down at his daughter, “you were in the company of this evil man for two weeks, and he debauched you.”

Jules paled. “If you mean by ‘debauched' that he . . . hurt me, no, he didn't. He wanted to save me because he would get more money for me if I were a virgin.”

“How dare you speak like that in front of your mother and sister! Merciful Lord, to be cursed with such—”

“That's quite enough.” Saint rose, his very size intimidating, his quiet voice instantly reducing
Reverend DuPres to silence. “Your daughter is safe and well. She was not debauched. And even if she had been, I don't see that it would matter. What matters, sir, is that your daughter is with you again.”

Etienne DuPres said nothing. He'd done his best by the girl. But she was willful, just as her scarlet-haired grandmother had been. She shouldn't have come back. He felt rage flow through him, rage and shame. He looked at her again, then walked from the room.

 

Jules sat before the small dressing table, slowly brushing her hair. She didn't look up when Sarah came into their bedroom.

“I am glad you are alive, Juliana,” Sarah said.

Then why do I want to shiver at your tone? Jules wondered. “Thank you,” she said, not breaking count with her hairbrush.

“You've been gone well over a month. Everyone was very upset. Father preached a marvelous sermon for you. He touched but once on your disobedience and your perfidy in swimming in the ocean.”

“Now he can unpreach it,” Jules said.

Sarah, as was her habit, stepped behind the narrow screen to undress. “John is going to marry me.”

Jules raised her head at that, looking toward the screen in the mirror. His affections were short-lived, she thought. But she wasn't angry at him; she was immensely relieved. “I am glad for you,” she said. “John is very nice.”

Sarah fingered the buttons on her long nightgown. “I saw how he was looking at you this afternoon. But he won't go back to you. Not now. Not after what you've done.”

“But I didn't do anything,” Jules said.

“So you say,” Sarah said. “As for Saint, well, you're better off with him. You should have stayed with him.”

I wanted to, but he didn't want me.

Jules turned on the stool and eyed her sister silently for a long moment. She would be pretty if only she would smile—not just her mouth, but her eyes. Her hair, unlike Jules's, was a soft brown and didn't fly about her head in wild curls. “Sarah,” she asked quietly, “do you love me?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Sarah said finally, “but I want John.”

“But you said you're marrying him! You have him, Sarah. He has nothing to do with me!”

Suddenly Sarah seemed to collapse. She covered her face with her hands, and wrenching sobs broke from her throat.

Jules, appalled, quickly went to her. “What's wrong, Sarah?”

The sobs continued, and Jules stood helplessly, watching her sister's slender body shake.

“John means nothing to me, please believe that,” Jules said. “He loves you. Why else would he marry you?”

“You fool,” Sarah whispered, raising her tearstained face. “He went crazy when Kanola's body was discovered and we were told that you'd been with her. Crazy, do you hear? But I wanted him, Juliana. I've always wanted him. He grieved. And I . . . well, I comforted him.”

“Well, of course you did. I'm certain he comforted you too.”

“You stupid fool!” Sarah nearly screamed at her. “I let him have me! That's why he's marrying me now. He has to! Dear God, I could be pregnant right now, and here you are, back again. I hate you!”

Jules stepped back, her face white. Very slowly she stripped off her white nightgown and began to dress. It didn't occur to her to step behind the screen, and her sister's shocked gasp only made her smile, a small, bitter smile.

“What are you doing now?”

“Nothing,” Jules said.

“He did debauch you, just like Father said. Taking off your clothes without a thought! It's disgusting.”

Jules turned a puzzled look to her sister. “Didn't you take off your clothes with John?”

Sarah shuddered. “No, of course not. It was dark. I just let him . . . well, I know that
you
understand what he did.” She shuddered again, and Jules suddenly felt very sorry for John Bleecher.

She finished dressing in silence.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” Jules said, and quietly slipped from the room. The house was dark. Everyone was in bed. Jules carefully propped open the back kitchen door and walked quickly toward the beach along the back streets. She could hear sounds of revelry—men's laughter and women's giggles—and now it had a new meaning to her. She saw not a soul. When she reached the deserted beach, she stripped off the hot, restricting gown and walked slowly down the beach toward the ocean, clad only in her short chemise. There was a half-moon, and as usual, the sky was clear, the stars dazzlingly bright. Gentle waves crested with barely a sound and slithered onto the wet sand. She didn't wade into the water, but skirted the waves and sat on an outcropping rock, hugging her arms about her knees.

She'd been gone for such a short time, really, but everything had changed. And everyone. No, that
wasn't true. She saw her sister's contorted face, the streaming tears. Priggish Sarah had made love to a man. She'd obviously disliked it.

Jules saw her own life as series of days spent in silent despair and nights spent thinking of what she couldn't have, and swallowed down the hated tears.

It was as if she'd conjured him up. She sat very still, watching Michael, magnificently naked, stride through the surf toward the beach. He was running his hands through his thick hair, then shaking himself like a mongrel dog.

As he came closer, Jules let her eyes fall down his body. She had never before seen a naked man—only Michael when he'd worn those meager pants. Now he wore nothing. The hair was thick on his chest, narrowing as it snaked down over his flat belly. She knew that men had things on the front of their bodies, and that's where babies came from. Men stuck themselves into women. For a moment she stared at him objectively, wondering how it would work, and how it would feel to touch him there. How it would feel to have him pressed against her, naked.

He turned a moment, looking back over the water. Her fingers tingled as her eyes traveled down his back to his buttocks, to his long legs. Old Lanakila carved figures in smooth, glowing wood. Michael looked as sculptured and perfect as the most beautiful of Lanakila's statues. Suddenly he twisted about and his eyes met hers, and held.

He made no move to cover himself, merely stood there, the water lapping over his feet, gazing at her.