Wild Star (7 page)

“That’s not silly at all,” she said after a moment. “You’re a romantic, Brent, and that’s a good thing for a man to be.”

“And a poet, no doubt.”

“Perhaps,” Maggie said. “Now, I can see you’re itching to be off. Will you do me a favor? Could you ask Saint to come over? Lisette isn’t feeling too well.”

“Sure thing. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just woman problems, that’s all.”

“Mysterious,” he said, giving her a wicked look.

“You men are so damned lucky,” Maggie said.

“Not always. Celeste just got mysterious on me.”

He cocked his hat at her and strode from the stiflingly glorious parlor. Maggie loved yellow. He felt like he’d stepped into a giant daffodil. At least it was better than Belle Cora’s garish and tasteless gold-and-red whorehouse.

 

“It’s not at all what I expected,” Byrony said to her new half-sister. “It’s so barren, but the hills are beautiful and the city is so vibrant.”

“Yes, that’s true. But we love San Francisco. And there are so many changes. Always changes.”

Byrony set down her teacup and looked about the salon. “You’ve built a lovely house, Ira. Very impressive.”

“Thank you, my dear. Do you like your room?”

“I’d be crazy and blind not to! Did you decorate it, Irene?”

“No, Ira did, before he left for San Diego. He wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

A silent black woman gently removed the tea service. “Thank you, Eileen,” Byrony said.

Eileen nodded, her eyes meeting Byrony’s for a brief moment.

Byrony yawned. “Oh dear,” she said, “please excuse me. I suppose I’m tired. It certainly isn’t the company.”

“Why don’t you rest until dinner, my dear? I’ll escort you to your room.”

“I should like that,” Byrony said, and rose.

Irene rose also. She gave Byrony a brief hug and said, “Thank you.”

Ira left her at her door. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed, my dear. Eileen will call you at seven. We dine normally at eight o’clock.”

She nodded, and slipped into her new bedroom. She stood for a moment in the center of the room. Her bedroom at Aunt Ida’s had been as fussy as her aunt was, crammed with all the bric-a-brac that wouldn’t fit into the other rooms. Her bedroom in San Diego had been small, bare, and cold. But not this room. She drew a deep, pleased breath. Large, airy, with huge bow windows facing south to sparsely housed hills. The walls were painted cream and all the furnishings were a pale blue. There were no
things
cluttering any surface. It was her room and it would be she who made it personal. The bed was covered with a pale blue-and-white counterpane.

I’m happy, she thought suddenly. I’m starting a new life. I am in control of it. Well, not really, she quickly amended to herself, her smile fading. She was now, she supposed, officially pregnant. She remembered Irene’s soft thank-you. She was relieved. She’d wanted no tears, no apologies, no scenes. How different Irene was from Ira. Ira, fair and slender as an angel, and Irene, small, dusky-complexioned, with deep brown eyes. She seemed somewhat reticent, perhaps shy, but Byrony guessed that the seven months they would spend together would bring about a better understanding of their respective characters.

Byrony stepped to the windows and drew back the heavy cream-colored draperies. She hoped she’d be able to see San Francisco before Ira took them to Sacramento. She’d felt the stirring in her blood when they had arrived, docking at the Clay Street wharf. Life, she thought, that’s what San Francisco has, boisterous wild young life. Ira had laughingly told her that he was an old man here, where the average age was well under thirty.

The gambler is here, she thought, and felt a peculiar rush of excitement. But it is too late. I am a married lady. It is too late.

“Fool,” she said to herself. “You’re behaving like a child, weaving a patched dream from scraps of memory. He’s just a man, a man like all the others.”

She dropped the draperies over the windows and walked slowly to her bed. She slipped off her shoes and lay on her back, staring up at the cream-painted ceiling. She wanted desperately to recapture that noble image of herself she’d nourished when she’d agreed to Ira’s plea, but there was nothing inside her save a growing feeling of despair and disbelief. She would become a mother in the eyes of the world. Irene’s child would be called hers. How would they all act? How would she feel then, living this lie? A life of lies.

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door, and Ira’s quiet voice calling, “Byrony.”

She quickly eased off the bed and straightened her clothes. “Come in.”

Ira took in her pale face. “Are you very fatigued, my dear?”

She managed a wan smile. “Perhaps, just a bit.”

He closed the door behind him and walked toward her. “Byrony,” he said, closing his hands over her shoulders, “you’ve been thinking, haven’t you? Thinking of all the complications, indeed, the consequences of your decision?”

She closed her eyes a moment, wondering how he could have known, but it didn’t occur to her to lie. “Yes, I have. It seems impossible to me now, all of it.”

Very gently he drew her into his arms. She’d never been held by a man before, and it felt odd, for a man was unyielding, so much stronger than she, and for an instant she felt fear rip through her. He let her go. “Tell me what seems impossible. We will talk of it. I do not want you to be unhappy.”

“You’re kind, Ira. I suppose I am just homesick.”

“Well, perhaps you miss your mother, but nothing else. And you only really knew her for what, Byrony? Six, seven months?”

She nodded.

“You now have a home, my dear, your own home. You are secure, and you are cared for. The child will, I devoutly pray, add to all of our happiness.” He paused a moment, then continued quietly, “If, in the future, you wish for a child, you will tell me. You are performing a great deed for my sister and me. I never wish you to have lasting regrets about your decision. Never.”

“I hope you are right,” she said. Her stomach growled suddenly.

“I’m just as hungry,” he said, grinning down at her. “Come now, let’s have dinner. Irene isn’t feeling too well so she is dining in her room. Tomorrow you and I will visit a very fancy clothier. You will need some new gowns. Friday we will leave for Sacramento. I fancy,” he continued thoughtfully as he walked beside her into the dining room, “that you look utterly exquisite in all shades of blue. We will see what Monsieur David can provide.”

The April afternoon was sunny and cool. The wind blew stiff on the bay, and Byrony clamped her hand on her bonnet while she watched her brand-new trunk carried on board the
Scarlet Queen.
She smiled in delight, thinking of all the new clothes and underthings that were inside, so many things, and all of the finest fabrics. She felt like a spoiled princess. She felt Ira’s hand on her arm and turned the brilliant smile to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You—well, all the new things you bought me, Ira. I’ve never had such—Well, anyway, thank you.”

“You are most welcome, my dear. Will you wear the sapphire-blue gown to dinner this evening?”

“Yes, certainly. Ira, the boat is so large and beautiful. It must rival the finest riverboats that ply the Mississippi.” She looked toward Irene and saw that the woman was looking pale. “Oh dear,” she said in a low voice, “I hope the trip won’t be too hard on her.”

“Why don’t I escort both of you to your cabin?”

Byrony nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. The bustle of the passengers, the frantic loading and unloading of other vessels, all the smells and sounds of the wharf made her feel so very alive.

“Captain O’Mally,” Ira said. “Good day to you, sir. I venture to say we’ll enjoy a smooth trip. Allow me to introduce my wife.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Captain O’Mally said. “Miss Butler,” he added, bowing slightly to Irene. “You’ve business in Sacramento, Mr. Butler?”

“Yes indeed. We will see you this evening, Captain.”

Byrony followed Ira and Irene along the deck. She peeked quickly into the large dining salon that was enclosed with glass windows. I am indeed a princess and am aboard my own floating palace.

Their cabin was small but luxuriously appointed. There was a soft blue carpeting on the floor and two narrow beds along the far wall of the cabin, two chairs, and a dressing table.

“It’s lovely. Oh, Irene, come, you must rest. Would you like a cool cloth on your forehead?”

Ira led Irene to the bed and helped her lie down. He sat down beside her and gently stroked her gloved hand. “Yes, Byrony, please,” he answered for his sister. “There should be washcloths in the armoire and cool water in the basin.”

A silent Eileen appeared at the doorway, looking impassively toward Irene. Without saying a word, she took the damp cloth from Byrony and walked to the narrow bed. “I will see to her, sir,” she said, her voice a soft, hoarse drawl.

Ira rose, his brow knit as he looked down at his sister. “You rest, Irene. Perhaps you will feel more the thing by dinner. Byrony, my dear, I will go along to my cabin now.”

She walked him to the door and said, “Would it be all right if I explored, Ira?”

“Certainly. You are a married lady now, Byrony. You do just as you please.”

She felt a stab of guilt leaving Irene, but her sister-in-law, seeing her excitement, waved her away.

“No need to worry, Miz Butler,” Eileen said. “I’ll stay with the mistress.”

Byrony spent two glorious hours exploring the
Scarlet Queen.
She clung to the rail until the steamboat left the wharf and turned north. She waved to the masses of people on the dock, not caring that she knew none of them. They were never out of sight of land. Desolate land, from what Byrony could tell, and so many islands dotting the bay. She wished she could speak to someone who could tell her where they were going and what she was seeing. Several men looked hungrily at her, but she ignored them. In her short time in San Francisco, every man she’d seen had looked hungrily at her.

“So few ladies, my dear,” Ira had said after several men had simply stopped in their tracks and stared at her. “And, of course, you are beautiful.”

“But, Ira, I’ve seen many ladies.”

“Not exactly ladies, Byrony. The largest part of the female population are—well, not ladies.”

“Whores?”

“Yes,” he’d said, looking startled.

She didn’t enlighten him. How could she tell him that it was but one of the insults her father had hurled at her head?

Byrony sneaked a look into a small salon that was obviously for men only. There was a thick cloud of smoke, occasional spurts of laughter, and, of course, gambling.

She returned to the cabin to find Irene still abed, Eileen seated in a chair beside her mistress. Eileen placed her finger over her lips.

“She’s asleep, poor lady. I’ll see that she gets some soup later when she awakens. Come, Miz Byrony, I’ll help you dress, but quiet now.”

She met Ira outside her cabin, and his soft whistle of admiration made her feel wonderful.

“Lovely, my dear, simply lovely.” He looked at the closed cabin door, a question in his eyes.

“Irene is sleeping. Eileen thinks it best.”

“Then come along.” Ira offered her his elegant black-coated arm.

“We won’t be sitting with the captain this evening. There are several business friends of mine who requested a separate table. You will, I believe, enjoy them, my dear.”

This proved to be the case. There was a Mr. Lacy, who owned a foundry, a Mr. Dancy, who was an investor from New York, and a Mr. Cornfield, who owned one of the newspapers. She was aware that Ira preened under their attention to her. I do look nice, she thought, straightening her shoulders and sending a smile to the balding Ezra Lacy.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “please continue your conversation. I am content to listen and learn.”

The dining salon was brilliantly lit; the tables were covered with white linen, the cutlery was silver, the plates fine china. She took a tentative taste of the broiled scallops and found them delicious. She heard a man laugh behind her and turned slightly in her chair toward the captain’s table.

She nearly dropped her wineglass. Staring at her, his eyes narrowed and so dark they appeared nearly black, was the gambler. She felt cold and hot at the same time. She shook her head, closed her eyes a moment. It was he, she was certain. She met his gaze again, and smiled. He raised his hand in salute.

Dear God, she thought. She believed her imagination had probably enhanced his male beauty, but it wasn’t so. He was wearing black, a pearl-gray vest over his white shirt. His hair glistened as black as his coat beneath the chandelier, and he sported a thick black mustache.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Butler?”

She got hold of herself and said easily, “Of course, Mr. Lacy. May I ask, sir, who is that gentleman there, at the captain’s table?”

“Ah, that is Brent Hammond. He’s a new businessman in San Francisco. He’s opening a saloon next week, the Wild Star.”

“I see,” she said. In the same city. Of course she knew he lived in San Francisco. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he look like a troll? Why did he have to stare at her with those dangerous, beautiful eyes?

She forced her attention back to her table. She heard Mr. Lacy mention something about the “duchess” and her house in conjunction with Hammond. His wife? His mistress? What was this house they were talking about?

Brent continued to stare; he couldn’t help himself. It was her, but the difference in her looks astounded him. She was gowned beautifully, quite expensively in fact, and he recognized Monsieur David’s handiwork. Her smooth shoulders met the soft white lace of her gown, hinting at the breasts beneath. Her honey-colored hair was piled high on her head and one thick ringlet fell lazily over her shoulder. Her neck was long, slender, exquisite as the rest of her. He glanced at the four men at the table with her, recognizing three of them. After a few moments he turned to Captain O’Mally. “Who is the lady, sir, over there with Ezra Lacy?”