Wild Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Take care of her, Eileen,” Ira said. He looked at Byrony but didn’t really see her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She stood for a moment in the narrow hallway. As a young girl, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near a woman giving birth. She supposed men had made that rule, their belief being that if a woman witnessed the agony of birth, she wouldn’t want to go through it herself. Then, she thought, what would happen to the human race?

  Byrony sat downstairs, huddled in her favorite chair, a novel on her lap. She heard every scream. It was dreadful. She’d never thought about birthing a child, not really. It went on and on. Dr. Chambers, a small, balding man who appeared to regard his fellow humans as so many insects to be tolerated, remained upstairs. Ira periodically came down. He looked exhausted, and so worried that Byrony’s heart went out to him.

  “God, how much longer?” he asked, running his hands through his hair. He looked disheveled. She’d never before seen him only in trousers and shirt, his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were very white with light sprinkles of fair hair.

  She didn’t know what to say. He paced, his eyes going every few moments toward the ceiling. “The baby is a bit early, thank God. She didn’t get too big. Why doesn’t it come?” There was a piercing scream, and Ira went white. He moaned as if the pain were his, and rushed out of the room. Byrony heard his steps on the stairs.

  Byrony’s book fell unnoticed to the floor as she rose. She went slowly to the foot of the stairs. She heard two men’s voices raised in argument. Then another agonizing cry.

  An hour passed, then another. There were no more loud screams. Suddenly she heard a thin wailing sound. The baby. She ran up the stairs, but Eileen blocked her view of Irene at the door.

  “No, Miz Butler,” she said firmly. “Not yet. The baby’s here, a little girl, and the mistress will be fine, I promise you.”

  It was well past midnight. Byrony, attired in her nightgown and robe, was sitting downstairs, waiting. She looked up to see Ira, his face utterly transformed.

  “It’s over,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Irene is sleeping now. The child is small but Dr. Chambers believes she will be fine.”

  “Does the child look like Irene?” She cursed herself the moment the question slipped out.

  “It’s hard to tell,” he said, appearing not to notice. “Actually, she has a lot of almost white hair. Her eyes are blue, but Eileen says that all babies start that way. Jesus, I never want to go through that again.”

  Irene probably doesn’t either, she thought. Byrony had feared that the child would look like Irene’s lover, though she hadn’t the foggiest notion of what that man looked like. Irene had ignored her one tentative question about him. She saw Ira sag with fatigue into a chair. He was asleep in a moment. It was odd, she thought, watching him. He was her husband, yet she’d never seen him dressed as he was now, never seen him asleep. She didn’t know him. A stab of elation went through her. It was over. Soon their exile would end.

  Brent looked up from the papers he was reading, and smiled. “Well, Maggie, how was business last night?”

  “Much the same. My girls are all exhausted. Lordy, so many horny men.” She paused a moment, sighing. “Felice miscarried. Saint tells me she’ll be just fine. The little idiot must not have been careful. I will box her ears when she recovers.”

  Brent knew she was worried, even though she spoke in the most clipped of tones. Oddly enough, this madam cared about her girls, as if, almost, they were her children, which was silly, of course, since several were older than Maggie.

  “As for you, Brent, I wish you hadn’t removed Celeste.”

  “I don’t like to share my women, Maggie, you know that. Come on, duchess, sit down and relax for a while.”

  Maggie sighed, and eased onto the plush leather sofa in Brent’s office. “Bloody hell, I’m so tired.”

  “Tired of what? Counting all your money?”

  She cocked open an eye at him, until she saw the wicked grin on his face. “You’re a bastard, Brent. Talk about counting money. Ah, business is good. We’re both lucky as hell.”

  “That we are. Would you like a drink, Maggie?”

  “I suppose a shot of good whiskey wouldn’t be amiss,” she said. She watched him cross to the small bar behind his mahogany desk. Behind the office were a small sitting room and a large bedroom. “Everything is so homey here. You’ve done well with the furnishings, Brent.”

  “Thank you,” he said, handing her the whiskey.

  “Here’s to everything we want,” Maggie said by way of a toast. She didn’t notice the strange, almost blank look that darkened his eyes. The liquid burned down to her stomach, and she brightened almost immediately.

  “Why didn’t you want to live with Celeste? Lord knows you’ve set her up like a queen.”

  Brent shrugged. “I like having my office and my rooms above the saloon. There’s also the possibility,” he added, “that one of the girls might lose her way and walk into my bedroom one dark night.”

  “If that ever happens, you can count on me sending you a hefty bill.” She thrust her empty glass toward him. “Give me another, Brent, it makes me expansive.”

  “Save me from expansive women,” he said.

  She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “What you mean to say is save you from all the women who chase you. You know, Brent, most men would trade about anything to have your luck with women. Have you always had to beat them off with a stick?”

  “You exaggerate, Maggie,” he said mildly, flinging himself down in his favorite chair, a huge overstuffed affair. “A bit.”

  “Ha. You haven’t had the nauseating pleasure of hearing Celeste go on to the girls about your magnificent self and your prowess as a lover.”

  “How very boring for you, duchess. Obviously you don’t believe her. After all, I haven’t ever observed you chasing me. Why, I even forget I own a stick when you come.”

  There was color in her cheeks, and for a moment she didn’t meet his eyes.

  He cocked a brow at her. “You’re being ridiculous, you know that?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “I guess I am. You know something, Brent, you and I are two very aloof people. Loners, I suppose you’d call us. At least that’s true of you. You don’t need anyone, do you?”

  Brent carefully stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed them at his ankles. “I need people,” he said.

  “But you always keep that distance, as if you consciously refuse to let anyone close. If there’s one thing I do know, Brent,” she continued when he remained silent, “it’s men.”

  “Come, Maggie, what’s there to know? We’re all simple creatures.”

  “Sex, food, and money.”

  “In that order? Don’t be so shortsighted, my dear. You are forgetting good whiskey and a comfortable bed.”

  “Oh, Brent, are you never serious? Are you afraid that I’ll get closer than you want, so you make silly jests and bait me?”

  “Maggie,” he said in a very quiet voice, “let it be, all right? What you are, what I am, is no one’s business. I know for a fact that you sleep alone. Does that give me the right to demand the reasons from you? I really don’t see it as comforting for two people to weep and wail to each other about a past that can’t be changed.”

  “You didn’t grow up poor, Brent, so your past couldn’t have been so bad. You did tell me a bit about Wakehurst, you know. I suppose I should be ecstatic that you trust me, a woman. Now you’ve got fire in your eyes. I knew it was a woman who turned you into a loner.”

  She sounded so pleased with her deduction that Brent curbed his anger. “Aren’t women the root of all men’s problems?” he asked, drawling his words.

  “Well, in my case it was a man—my father, to be exact,” she said. “Horny, righteous prig. God, I hated him.” She drew herself up, paled a bit at her outburst, and said, “You are a cool one, aren’t you, Brent Hammond? Forgive me. Since the last thing you want is for me to weep
on your shoulder, I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Maggie.” He rose and stretched, walking to the window. He said over his shoulder, his voice very cool and calm, “If you wish, I’ll beat the shit out of him. Would you like that?”

  She laughed. “Oh no—Lord only knows how many mouths to feed he has now. I wouldn’t want the little mites to be orphans.” She paused a moment, studying his back. “Have you ever wanted a wife and family, Brent?”

  He went rigid, but when he finally answered her, his voice was calm, even humorous. “Can you see me dandling little ones on my knee?” He turned to face her, raising his hand. “No, duchess, don’t answer that. If you would know the truth, there was a girl once. Soft, beautiful, sweet. But, of course, it was all a facade, an act. Now, are you quite satisfied?”

  “Once, Brent? You mean years ago, or recently?”

  “Recently,” he said curtly, then shrugged, not fooling her for a minute. “She is what she is, and briefly I was fool enough to think that—Well, enough. We all learn, don’t we, Maggie? Incidentally, you’re not having any trouble with James Cora, are you?”

  Maggie kept her expression impassive. She knew the brief show of bitterness was but the tip of the iceberg. He’d have to be drunker than hell to tell her more. She accepted his change of topic, even as she searched her mind for a likely female candidate. “He’s a handsome devil,” she said mildly, “I’ll grant you that, but I don’t want him. A faithless bounder, and Belle knows it. Not that she’s a saint herself, of course.”

  Brent studied his business partner silently for a moment. He admired her, he liked her even when she was being pushy. She was pretty, in an understated sort of way. She did not dress garishly. No one would take her for a whore or a madam. She looked quite prim, actually, with her black hair tucked neatly into a chignon. He wondered idly what her hair would look like out of the severe style. Her high-necked gown was dove gray, so modest in fact that it looked more suited to a schoolmarm.

  “Stop staring at me like that, Brent,” Maggie said, frowning at him. “I know you don’t like what you see, but I don’t care.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Maggie. You’re a very pretty woman, and that’s what I was thinking.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you.” She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Next thing I know, you’ll be wondering why I don’t want a parcel of brats on my knee.” She gave a parting shot. “Now, who could this infamous girl be, I wonder?”

  “Maggie.”

  “I’ll want a game of high-stakes poker with you tonight, Brent. Don’t lose all your money until I’ve had a chance at you.”

  Why, he wondered, thrusting his fingers through his hair, had he been such a fool as to mention Byrony? Why the hell hadn’t he forgotten her? By now she’d given birth to her child. He felt something stir inside him, and despised himself. He’d made it a point to discover that Ira Butler dutifully traveled nearly every week to Sacramento. And gossip among the upper crust of San Francisco society was, quite honestly, that his bride was pregnant before the ring was on her finger. But she’d left town so as not to embarrass anyone. It was a smart move, and probably Ira’s idea, damn the man. He heard some shouting in the street and walked to the window that overlooked Montgomery. Below were two drunken men, miners from the look of them, fighting with great gusto. He grinned. He’d like to join them.

  When would she return to San Francisco?

  EIGHT

  San Francisco, 1853

  “Don’t touch her.”

  Byrony straightened like a shot over Michelle’s crib at the sound of Irene’s furious voice behind her. The baby, who until this point had been looking blurrily up at her, began to cry.

  “Now look what you’ve done. Ah, my poor little sweetheart. Come to Mama, love.”

  Byrony watched in surprise as Irene leaned over the child and gently lifted her to her shoulder.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Byrony said after the baby quieted. “Indeed, Irene, it was your voice that upset her.”

  For an instant Byrony froze at the fury she saw in Irene’s dark eyes; then it was gone, and she wondered if she’d imagined it. But she hadn’t imagined Irene’s anger at her attention to the baby.

  “Forgive me, Byrony,” Irene said, even as she clutched Michelle more closely to her breast. “I was upset about something, and took it out on you. So silly of me, really. Hush, my angel.”

  “Of course,” Byrony said, and left the nursery. She walked to her bedroom and gently closed the door. She looked toward the locked door that adjoined her room to Ira’s. My husband, she thought, and laughed, a bitter sound.

  They’d been in San Francisco for over two weeks now. Blessed cool weather was Byrony’s first thought. She loved the fog, the way it billowed like a fluffy cloud over the bay. Occasionally it blanketed the city, even coming over Rincon Hill. She shook away her thoughts. The weather was stark, cool and clear today, as stark as Irene’s vicious words. I’ve got to speak to Ira. He’s got to do something about Irene. And, God, I can no longer remain locked away.

  Byrony waited patiently until she heard Ira moving about in his room. Patience. That was something she’d surely learned in the past months. Patience unto boredom. For the first time, she raised her hand to knock on the adjoining door, then lowered it. She’d never been invited into his room, just seen it briefly when he had shown her over his house. A stark, masculine room. She continued to wait until she heard him leave and walk downstairs. She straightened her hair, shook out her skirts, and made her way to his study. Firmly she tapped on the closed door.

  “Byrony, my dear, come in.” Ira rose to greet her. “How was your day?” She felt his eyes searching her face. What was he thinking, she wondered, when he looked at her?

  “I must speak with you, Ira,” she said.

  “Certainly. Come and sit down.”

  She did as she was bid, folding her hands in her lap.

  “Now, what is the matter, my dear?”

  How to begin? How to explain the problem? “Ira,” she said, “Irene doesn’t want me near the baby.”

  He withdrew; she sensed it, even though he said kindly, “Surely you are exaggerating, my dear. I agree that Irene is a bit protective of the child, but that is understandable, is it not?”

  “Ira,” she continued, forcing her voice to remain calm, “Michelle is supposed to be my child. If anyone sees Irene with the baby, with me trailing along like a half-wit nanny, they’ll guess that something is very wrong.”

  He sighed, rubbing his thumb along his jaw in a wide circular motion. She recognized it as a habit he engaged in whenever he was deep in thought. “People aren’t stupid,” he said finally. “You are, of course, quite right.”

  “I must at least know the child well enough so she won’t start crying when I pick her up. Irene must understand that—”

  “Irene must understand what?”

  Ira whirled about as if he’d been shot. “Irene. Come in.”

  “I’m already in,” Irene said coldly. “What I would like to know is, what kind of tales is Byrony carrying to you behind my back?”

  Byrony gasped. “I’m not carrying tales. For God’s sake, Irene, we must work something out.”

  “Everything would be just fine if you wouldn’t meddle.”

  “That’s enough,” Ira said. Byrony watched him take his sister in his arms. She knew he was talking to Irene but couldn’t make out his words. If only he’ll make her see what an idiot she’s being. No, not an idiot; a poor woman who’s suffered and who must have the child to make her complete again.

  Irene’s breath caught, and she began to sob.

  Oh, damn. Surely Ira didn’t have to be so unkind as to make her cry.

  Irene seemed to get a hold on herself. Ira patted her back and led her to a chair. “Now,” he said, looking away from Irene to Byrony, “we must consider this situation rationally. After all, we want what is best for Michelle. Irene, my dear, you must realize that Byrony is right
. You must allow her to become close to the child, else people will wonder. You mustn’t appear so possessive. Do you agree?”

  Irene hesitated for but a brief moment. “Yes, Ira,” she said dully.

  And that was that, Byrony thought.

  “Good. Now, I’ve a surprise for both of you. We are going to have a dinner party next Friday night. It’s time that Byrony was introduced properly to our friends.”

  Byrony felt a rush of excitement. “That’s wonderful, Ira. Have you made out the guest list yet? Oh dear, we will need additional help. But I’m a good cook and I can assist Eileen—”

  “Slow down,” Ira laughed, holding up his hands. “One thing at a time. First of all, I have made up the guest list and will go over it with you, Byrony. I’ve seen to additional servants, and in fact, I’ve hired a cook. Her name is Naomi; she’s a Negro from Alabama. Irene, I want you to be well rested by Friday. Remember it is Byrony, not you, who gave birth. You must get the bloom back in your cheeks.”

  And that was that, Byrony thought again. The master had spoken. Byrony guessed that Irene was not pleased with her, but what could she do?

  Byrony didn’t eat much that evening, cutting the chicken breast into neat small pieces, listening with half her attention to Ira’s efforts at light conversation. He was a kind man, she thought, looking at him. He tried so hard to keep both the women in his house happy. His house. Odd, but she didn’t feel a part of this family. She wondered if she ever would.

  The next morning, Ira knocked on her door early. Byrony was already up and dressed, and pacing. “Ira,” she said in surprise, for she’d expected Eileen.

  “Come, my dear, I have a surprise for you.”

  “What? Another one? I thought you’d already left for your office.”

  “My business affairs won’t float away in the bay,” he said, offering her his arm. “Come now, and no, I’m not saying anything more.”

  Byrony followed her husband outside. “I don’t understand—” she began, only to blink rapidly in rapturous surprise. “Thorny, my mare—Oh, Ira.” She hugged him tightly. She whirled away from him in but a moment, and began stroking Thorny’s nose. “However did you get Father to part with her?”