Jo Goodman (12 page)

At the top of the stairs he turned right and headed down the hall. Berkeley had to quicken her step to keep up. "I thought you meant to help me," she said quietly. "I didn't mean that you should get nothing for it. I thought I might find work with you."

"What sort of work?"

"I don't know exactly," she said slowly, feeling her own inadequacies keenly. "But something. I'm not without a talent, you know."

Grey's tone was dry. "We'll discuss that later." He stopped in front of one of the large oak doors. The handle turned without inserting a key. "No locks yet, I'm afraid," he said. "Next week, Donnel tells me. Or the week after." He opened the door and gestured her inside.

Except for an enormous walnut desk and a pine crate turned on its end to serve as a chair, the room was empty. French doors were centered in the opposite wall and could open onto the balcony that overlooked Portsmouth Square. When she stepped farther into the room Berkeley could see part of the scaffold she had noticed earlier. She pressed the side of her face against the glass and watched the workman smooth linseed oil into the wooden goddess's hair. At least he had finished polishing her breasts.

Stepping away from the glass, her cheeks washed with a faint rose color, Berkeley walked to the fireplace. Imported marble tiles made up the lintel and jambs. The mantel was a single piece of polished walnut that blended seamlessly where it met the inlaid panels that completely covered the wall. A pair of brass sconces that still required their globes to be safely functional, flanked the mantelpiece. Above the walnut wainscoting that trimmed the rest of the room, flocked wallpaper in two shades of blue had been chosen to keep the quarters from being too dark or close.

Berkeley pointed to the door set in the wall on her right. It was open a crack. "May I?" she asked.

"Of course. Look anywhere you like."

She supposed that if he had already furnished his apartments, he would not be so quick to extend an invitation, or at least he would feel compelled to follow her around. Berkeley knew she didn't present an appearance worth trusting. It wasn't only the fish odor that clung to her, but weeks of sleeping in alleys and scraping meals from refuse piles behind the eateries. If she had had the luxury of washing in the bay a hundred times a night, it couldn't have removed the desperate edge that poverty had given her. She wouldn't whore for Grey Janeway, but she wouldn't think twice about stealing from him.

Berkeley slowly circled the adjoining room. It would be a small library when it was finished. The shelves were in place, though lacking even a single book. Beyond that was what Berkeley suspected would be the bedroom. A bench had been built below the bay window that filled almost the entire wall, and there was also a door that led to the hallway. A dressing room completed the suite. It was narrow by the standards set by the previous rooms but still big enough to hold a massive armoire and a dressing table. The armoire was empty, and the table held no personal items.

Berkeley walked back into the bedroom. Grey was waiting for her, casually leaning in the doorway that led from the library. "Is it what you expected?"

She hadn't given a thought to expectations. There was no denying it was a grand place, but then she would have been satisfied with a dry floor and roof that didn't leak. She didn't answer his question because she couldn't. "Is this where I'll be staying?"

Still watching her closely, Grey shook his head. "No."

Berkeley looked down at the floor to conceal her disappointment. Why had he brought her here if he didn't mean to give her shelter?

"You'll have a room down the hall."

Her head bobbed up. Her eyes were mirrors for her gratitude and her relief. "Do you mean it?"

To be on the receiving end of so much appreciation was a bit daunting. Grey's answer was clipped. "I just said so, didn't I?" He regretted his tone when he saw Berkeley flinch, but he didn't apologize. She didn't seem to be able to understand the enormous responsibility that she presented and that he didn't necessarily welcome it. Until this morning at the wharf, he'd made a point to avoid commitments that weren't totally related to business.

The tabby chose that moment to sprint into the bedroom. Her attention was immediately caught by the shaft of sunlight coming in through the window. She pawed at a dust mote that appeared to be suspended in the beam. Shaking his head, Grey watched the cat's antics for a moment. This was the Sydney Ducks' real revenge, he decided. His brief encounter with them had left him in charge of a lunatic cat and a singularly curious young woman. The Ducks could be very pleased with their morning's work. Without much effort they had managed to disrupt his life completely.

Berkeley reached for the cat as if she were a lifeline, but the tabby wanted no part of her. She leaped onto the window seat and settled in the sunlight. Berkeley stood up slowly, suddenly adrift.

Grey felt her uncertainty keenly. Until that moment he hadn't been entirely sure that she was alone. Now he knew.

Berkeley made a visible effort to shrug off her self-pity. There was nothing to be gained, and she doubted Grey would be moved by it. She didn't want him to feel sorry for her anyway. She could hardly prove her independence if she somehow became his responsibility.

"Mr. Janeway?" The call came from another room.

Grey turned toward the parlor. "In here."

Shawn Kelly appeared carrying an armload of books. "From your tent, sir. Where should I put them?" He looked around, became aware he was standing in Grey's small library, and offered, "What about on one of these shelves, Mr. Janeway?"

"That would be fine, Shawn. Don't bother to sort them."

"Oh, I wouldn't know how," Shawn said. "Never learned to read more than enough to get by." He pushed the books onto one of the shelves. "You'd better show us where you want the rest of your things. No sense moving more than once."

It was then Berkeley became aware of the approach of heavy footsteps in the hallway. She followed Grey back into the parlor in time to see a parade of workmen enter with canvas, poles, cots, trunks, blankets, cooking utensils, a pitcher, a basin, and a chair. Just when she thought no one else could fit into the room, two men hoisting a large wooden washtub on their shoulders walked in. Grey raised his hand, pointed in the direction of the dressing room, and the sea of men parted soundlessly. Berkeley jumped out of the way as they squeezed themselves and the washtub through.

"The canvas and poles have to go to the storage room," Grey told the men. "I'm not setting up a tent here. Cooking supplies to the kitchen. Leave the chair here; everything else in the bedroom."

Moving into a shadowed corner of the parlor, Berkeley watched the workmen move with choreographed simplicity. There was not even the slightest misstep as the belongings were distributed to their proper place in a matter of minutes. The men who had not gone to the kitchen and the storage room congregated back in the parlor. Grey struck a careless, casual pose that was becoming familiar to her as he hitched one hip on the edge of his desk and stretched a leg out to the side.

"Can I have a few volunteers to heat water and carry it back up here?" he asked. "I'll need buckets of it, I'm afraid. The Phoenix's first guest will require a considerable amount of scrubbing before she's fit to take a room."

Berkeley realized the shadows in her corner weren't nearly deep enough as the men turned in unison toward her. Cheeks aflame with humiliation, Berkeley tried to make herself invisible by staring at her feet and closing her eyes. She thought some of the men must have given Grey a silent indication they would help because no one volunteered aloud.

"Good," Grey said. "You can go. Oh, and if at any time you see Sam loitering in the hall downstairs, send him up." Grey waited until the men shuffled out and the door was closed before he addressed Berkeley. "You can come out now."

She didn't move.

"Or not," he said, shrugging as if it were of no importance. When she remained exactly as she was for longer than a minute Grey's patience came to an end. "I'm not going to apologize each time I trample your tender feelings. I expect I'll be doing it quite often."

Berkeley dragged the rumpled hat from her head and clutched it between her hands. More of her pale hair fell forward across her shoulders. She lifted her face a few degrees but still did not look at Grey. "I won't get used to it," she said softly. "I won't let myself."

"My God," Grey said under his breath. "How the hell have you managed to survive on your own?"

"By disguising myself as a boy." Now she looked at him straight on. "And you took that defense away from me when you lifted this hat off my head. All of your workers know the truth and most of the men in Portsmouth Square. If I can't hide what I am any longer, then I don't see that I should be expected to hide what I feel. You may ignore my tender feelings, but I won't let you pretend I haven't any."

Berkeley missed Grey's faint smile because she glanced away too quickly. He noticed that these flashes of temerity seemed to have the capacity to surprise her. She was staring at the floor again as if waiting to be set in her place, not realizing she had set him firmly in his.

Grey pushed out the chair the workers left behind. It scraped against the floor, drawing her attention. "Sit down, Miss Shaw."

"I'm fine," she said. "Really, I—"

"Did you think I was inviting you to have a seat?" he asked. "I wasn't. It was an order." He held up one hand, staving off her protest. "Consider your argument said, heard, and ignored. Have a seat, Miss Shaw."

With the momentum she achieved by pushing herself out of the corner, Berkeley managed to cross the room. She pulled the chair back a few feet so she wasn't directly beneath his gaze and sat down. "Is it your intention to interrogate me?" she asked.

"It is my intention that you should stop cowering in that corner." He stood, skirted the edge of the desk, and sat on the pine crate. "Let's agree to hold further discussion until the water arrives." Without giving her another glance he began leafing through a stack of papers, sorting and filing them away in one of the drawers. While she looked on silently, Grey made an occasional note on something he read or scribbled an addition to a list he was compiling.

Almost an hour elapsed before workmen appeared at Grey's suite. Berkeley was asleep in the stiff ladder back chair she occupied, her head cocked sideways at an awkward angle and her hands lying palm up in her lap. The abused hat that she had twisted and tugged while she held her tongue lay on the floor at her feet.

Grey rose from behind the desk quietly and went to the door. He met the bucket brigade in the hallway. He gave them instructions on preparing the bathtub and motioned them to use the door leading directly into the bedroom. They accomplished their task with a surprising amount of efficiency for men who had never been in service in their lives. Grey thought their eagerness to please had a lot less to do with him than it did with Berkeley's cascade of corn silk hair and the fey appeal of her leaf green eyes.

He dismissed the men, then went to Berkeley and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She didn't stir. Grey bent and slipped one arm behind her back and another under her knees. Her head lolled comfortably against his chest. He looked down at her sleeping features and felt a small resentment for the trust she had extended him.

Grey carried her through the library and bedroom and into the dressing room. The tub had been lined with a sheet to protect her from the rough slats and filled three-quarters of the way with hot water. Two more rinsing buckets stood by. Towels, soap, and washcloths lay on top of the trunk lid. There was nothing left to be done.

"Miss Shaw?"

"Hmmm?"

"Your bath is ready."

Berkeley's only response was to offer an abrupt little snore and burrow against him.

Grey saw the cat wander into the doorway and stare at him curiously. "This could happen to you," he told the tabby. "So learn from it." He lowered Berkeley over the tub until he was in a position to drop her. Then he did.

The tabby meowed loudly, back arched, as Berkeley came up spitting and flinging water. The cat ran away. Berkeley had nowhere to go. She pushed the damp curtain of hair out of her eyes then tried to lift herself out of the tub. She was held in place by the hand on her shoulder. "Do you mean to drown me?" she demanded, sinking back under the weight of Grey's palm.

"It has a certain appeal," he admitted. He straightened. "You can take off your clothes and put them on the floor. Call me when you're done, and I'll get them out of here." He took her silence as assent and went to the trunk. The bar of soap he pitched in her direction landed heavily in the water when she missed it. While Berkeley groped for it, Grey tossed the washcloth and laid the towels beside the tub. He opened the trunk lid, rooted among the contents, and came away with another sheet. With no explanation he left the dressing room.

Berkeley felt her mouth sag a little as she stared after him. Did he really expect her to strip at his command? Wash, just because he'd thrown soap at her? The only thing worse would be if he tried to scrub her down himself. Berkeley began to heave herself out of the tub just as Grey walked back into the room. This time he was carrying a hammer, rope, and, between his teeth, two nails. He gave her a quelling look and she lowered herself into the water while he began to rig a curtain that would separate the tub from the rest of the dressing room.