She would miss him. She didn’t dare think of the other dream that had been growing inside her ever since she’d first seen him outside the depot, looking like a fallen angel in his black suit, his shiny black boots, with that odd streak of white across his tarnished brass hair.
She refused to put a name to it. That second dream. At least she would have the satisfaction of seeing the admiration in his eyes the day he saw her name in gold on her very own storefront. Until then, she’d do better to try and forget him.
Eight dollars a night. Even to think of standing up and singing for a roomful of men terrified her. She would do it, though, because she had to. If she didn’t believe in herself, no one else would, and then where would they be?
*
“Not another word, young lady.”
“But Captain Galen, I saw it as plain as day. People were moaning and carrying on, and there was Charlie and Oscar, and Ermaline was crying holding her belly, and—”
“Tara, not now, please. I’m busy.”
“Yes, but—”
“I told you, there’s no cholera. We have laws against it. They’re called quarantine laws.”
“Yes, but—”
“I realize that with ships coming and going from every port in the world, there’s always the possibility of spreading disease, but in a town this small, it’s hardly likely. Believe me, if I thought there was the slightest danger, I’d close down so fast your head would swim. Now run along like a good girl, will you? I’m due back on the floor, and I’m already running late.”
“Well, but . . . I saw it, I really did, clearer than I’ve seen anything since the tablecloths and gold coins.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Galen turned away from his safe. The IOUs would have to wait. How the devil was he supposed to concentrate on business with a hysterical kid carrying on about something she thought she’d seen.
Dreamed, more than likely. After the supper she’d put away, it was no wonder she had nightmares. Willy said she ate more in a single sitting than most full grown men did in a day.
Years of going hungry, he suspected, feeling almost guilty because he’d never personally experienced real hunger.
Hunger was the last thing he felt after spending the past two days wining and dining bankers, lawyers, and building contractors at the Albemarle House.
“Tara, Tara. What am I going to do with you?”
She looked so damned miserable with her homely little face and her big sad eyes, he felt like holding out his arms and letting her pour out her foolishness on his shoulders.
She sniffed. Her face was pale, the freckles standing out like specks of rust. Her lips were quivering. If she was doing it deliberately, he had to admit she had it down to a fine art. He’d seen professional gold diggers who couldn’t play on a man’s guilt half as well.
A piteous yowl came from the basket on her arm. She shifted on her feet and said, “I guess I won’t be seeing you again, then.”
“Of course you will,” he exclaimed with patently false cheerfulness. “Has Katy found you another place to stay?”
She nodded, still on the verge of tears.
“Well, then, I’ll be seeing you around town. Elizabeth City’s a small place. We’re bound to run into one another sooner or later. Besides, you know you’re always welcome to visit.”
“Miss Aster doesn’t want us. She hates cats.”
“You leave Miss Aster to me.”
The look she gave him then defied description, and Galen decided he was imagining things. She was a funny child. Maybe all children were that way, imagining pirates and robbers behind every tree. It had been too many years, he couldn’t recall.
“Want me to tell Katy good-bye for you? She’ll probably be too busy being famous and entertaining rich men to come visit.”
“Being famous, huh? I see Mrs. Baggot had better look to her laurels.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but then shut it again, looking so miserable he wondered if she could possibly be jealous of her older sister. Having grown up the middle son of three, he did remember something about sibling rivalry.
He told himself he’d do well to secure Katy a husband before Little Miss Trouble dreamed up another escapade, but knew he wouldn’t do it. Didn’t know what he would do, but knew he wasn’t about to hand her over to another man.
The door opened a crack, and Katy peered in and said, “There you are. I’ve been searching everywhere. Come along now, we’d best be leaving.”
Galen stood and shoved his chair under the desk. “Katy, if you’ve a moment—?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re in a grand hurry. Galen, thank you for—”
At a moan from Tara, she broke off. They both turned in time to see Tara crumple onto the nearest chair, clasping her belly. Her face held a greenish cast, and for once there was no doubt at all that she wasn’t acting.
*
Tara was the first victim. Johnny the Knife was next. After that, the pumpers fell ill, and before the doctor could arrive, it seemed that everyone aboard the Queen was wretching and moaning.
All thought of leaving was forgotten as Katy and Galen, with Ila’s help, settled the victims in whatever quarters could be made quickly available. By the time Ila threw up, gasped out an apology, and then fled from the room, the doctor had arrived.
“It all came on so fast, doctor. Is it—cholera?”
“Cholera? Lord love you, no, madam. There’s scarlet fever in town, and one or two cases of the summer influenza, but this looks to me like plain old food poisoning. Happens every summer. You take a spell of hot weather, with the ice man running behind in his deliveries—What with picnics and all, folks get sick. Happens every summer. Wait’ll the Fourth of July, I’ll be run clean off my feet trying to keep up.”
There was no question of Katy’s leaving. For all she knew, she might be the next one to fall ill. Tara was returned to the locker room, to the bed they’d shared for the past two nights. Katy would have set the cat free to look after herself, but she knew Tara would be heartbroken, so she made her a place with a box and a bowl of milk, and prayed the milk wasn’t tainted.
Aster had been moved into Ila’s room, too sick to offer more than a feeble protest, and Ila was in with Ava and Ermaline. One by one in rapid succession, the entire staff had succumbed. The male crew was scattered among the few remaining quarters, mostly on pallets on the floor. It made nursing far easier, having them all on one floor.
Or deck, as Katy reminded herself. To be sure, after the past few hectic hours, she couldn’t have said where she was, nor which end was up.
Most of the customers had long since fled. The few who came late were turned away. Galen placed a sign at the foot of the gangplank, letting everyone know that the gambling rooms would be closed until further notice. While he was at it, he called over one of the waterfront regulars. The two men conferred briefly, and then Galen handed over a sheaf of bills. The bilge pumps could go unmanned for a day or so without serious consequences. He could use a nurse, but didn’t hold out much hope of securing one at this hour of night.
Sandwiches, though . . . neither he nor Katy had had time even to think about supper. Under the circumstances, neither of them had much of an appetite, but they had to eat to maintain their strength.
“Poor Willy,” Katy said with a sigh. “He tried to apologize. I told him it wasn’t his fault, but I don’t think it helped.”
“He’s not as bad as some of the others. A few of the boys are turning themselves inside out.”
“Tara’s asleep now. I wish she hadn’t eaten so much supper.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Have any supper.”
They’d met in the corridor, shoulders drooping, and lingered a moment to compare notes. Galen told her about the sandwiches waiting in his office, and she groaned. The handkerchief she’d tied around her hand earlier was filthy. The pain was a constant dull ache, but she’d ignored it.
She
managed a glimmer of a smile. Galen stared at her. Neither of them could manage to look away. “You’re forever trying to feed me. It’s a good thing I was too busy. There’s far worse things than going hungry.”
“Honey, you’ve got to eat something. Half a sandwich. Two bites.”
She wrinkled her nose. He reached out and touched the very tip of it, and she closed her eyes against the temptation to lean against him and let the world and its troubles disappear.
“It might have been better if you’d sent out for help instead of food,” she told him.
“I did that, too. Your friend, Mr. Bynum, offered us the services of Red Satin. For a fee.”
“Red—what on earth would we want with satin?”
“It’s a woman, or rather, she is. Red hair, satin . . . well, whatever.”
Katy’s mouth rounded into a startled O.
“Take a break, honey, before you drop in your tracks. If I have to look after the lot by myself, I might jump ship.”
“You never would, not you. You’ve far too great a conscience.” She raked back her hair. She’d misplaced her hat, and her hair was tumbling from its once tidy knot. Earlier when they’d passed in the corridor Galen had paused, stripped off his tie, turned her back to him, and secured the unruly mop as best he could.
She’d told herself she only imagined his hands lingering there. As weary as she was, it was no wonder her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Katy?” His voice was a husky whisper, soft so as not to disturb anyone who might be sleeping in the rooms on either side. “Come upstairs. Two bites, five minutes, that’s all.”
“Oh, all right. Five minutes, then, but no more. Are you sure you left a bell in every room?”
“Bells, buckets, and plenty of towels.”
As they were close to the galley, and as always, there was a kettle on the stove, Katy made tea. She had an idea Galen would have preferred coffee; she didn’t ask and he didn’t complain.
Galen carried the brown betty teapot and two stout mugs. It was all Katy could do to carry herself up the stairs and out onto the balcony. She’d left Tara in bed with the kitten curled at her feet. The child had emptied out her belly again and then fallen into an exhausted sleep.
“I think Johnny and Ermaline might be over the worst,” she said after collapsing into one of the chairs Galen had dragged outside.
He unwrapped a thick sandwich and handed it over. “Here, eat as much as you can and I’ll give you some tea.”
“I want tea while it’s hot. Now. Right this minute . . . please?”
“Demanding little tyrant, aren’t you?” He poured her a mug, stirred in three spoonsful of sugar and handed it over. “You look awful, by the way.” The words were offered with a crooked grin, and Katy couldn’t find it in her heart to resent it. In his sock feet, with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the tails hanging out and the sleeves rolled up over tanned, muscular forearms, he looked more than ever like a tarnished, jaded angel.
She emptied her cup, closed her eyes, and sighed. “That was lovely.”
“Eat.”
“I’d rather sleep.”
“Katy, I know you would, but just this once, trust me to know what’s best.”
“I trust you,” she said without opening her eyes. And she did. She would trust him with her life. Hadn’t she come nearly five thousand miles on blind trust alone?
She felt his hands on her arms, and then he was shaking her. “Dammit, wake up! Don’t go to sleep on me yet. Take one bite, just one little bite, and I’ll put you down for a nap.”
She shook her head. Galen stared down at her, his expression one of hunger, frustration, and exhaustion. “Stubborn woman,” he muttered.
He could almost swear she smiled without opening her eyes. “Come along then, I’ll let you sleep awhile, but then you’re going to have to eat a whole sandwich. Do we have a deal? Katy?” He wasn’t entirely sure he could carry her without dropping her, he was so damned tired after playing nursemaid half the night. It wasn’t his line of work. Not that he wasn’t willing, but a man felt so damned helpless, watching a kid retch his guts out over and over without being able to do a damned thing to ease the pain.
He bent over her chair to scoop her into his arms, and it was then he noticed her right hand. It came to him that she’d had that rag tied around it all night, only he’d had other things on his mind. She hadn’t explained, and he hadn’t asked.
Now he carried her inside and lowered her onto his bed. Her lips moved, but other than that, she didn’t stir.
He opened her collar, unbuttoned it all the way down to the edge of her chemise, to where the soft swell of her breasts began, and felt like a dog for looking.
He unlaced her shoes and slipped them off, cursing softly when he saw the wad of paper crammed into the toe. Damn Aster and her penny-pinching ways!
And damn him for not paying closer attention to what was going on.
Next he reached for her hand. The handkerchief was knotted, the knot pulled tight. It was damp, which made it all but impossible to pick loose, but he managed. She didn’t stir. Not even when he lifted her hand, examined the palm and began to swear.
“Katy, Katy, what am I going to do with you?”
He used shaving soap because it was mild, and daubed on whiskey, knowing it would sting like the very devil, hoping she would sleep through it. Ila had something in her room she used on everything from cuts to earache, but he wasn’t sure where she kept it, and didn’t want to leave Katy long enough to go search.
So he folded her hand over the raging raw place on her palm, lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. And then he leaned over and kissed her lips, which were slightly parted, and wanted to do more. As tired and distracted as he was, it took almost more willpower than he possessed to sit there beside the bed and watch her sleep when he would have sold his very soul for the right to lie down beside her.
To take off her gown and whatever she was wearing under it, and then take off his own clothes and lie down beside her. Not to make love, because he was too tired and she was too tired, but to hold her. Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, to hold her while she slept, to sleep with her, and after a while . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Galen told himself it was one of life’s small ironies. The last time he’d lost his head over a woman, that woman had been seven years older than he was. A neighbor’s daughter, he’d always known her, but hadn’t thought much about her one way or another until after she’d come home from a two-year stay in France.
Instead of the quiet, shy girl he’d known all his life, who used to beat him at checkers and dominoes, she’d come home a poised, elegant woman, speaking with just the hint of a foreign accent. He’d been about eighteen at the time. Maybe even younger. He’d considered himself suave, handsome, everything any woman could want in a man, a favorite with all the ladies, from grandmothers to granddaughters, servants to socialites.
In other words, he’d been a complete ass.
For all her newfound sophistication, Margaret had been unfailingly kind. Looking back, he had a feeling she might have had something going with Brand, but if so, nothing had ever come of it. Years later, when they’d met again, they had both smiled over it. By then she’d been married to a banker-turned-diplomat, and appeared to be serenely approaching middle age.
Now it was happening to him again, only in reverse. Katy was little more than a child. She might be almost twenty-two years old, but in experience, she was hardly older than Tara. Innocence stood out all over her. Innocence and pride and a stubborn conviction that all she had to do was want something enough and work hard enough, and it would fall into her hands like a ripe plum.
Katy, Katy, what am I going to do with you?
He had a feeling if she heard him asking, she’d have a ready response. One he didn’t particularly care to hear.
Leaving her there, he made the rounds again. Tara was sound asleep. Still too pale, too frail. There were s
hadows under her eyes that didn’t belong on a child. But then, as she reminded anyone within hearing whenever her status was questioned, she was practically thirteen years old.
He smoothed the light cover up over her shoulders, touched her matted hair, and then her forehead. It was cool, thank God. He told himself it could have been a lot worse. She’d said cholera. The last bad cholera epidemic had been—hell, he hadn’t even been born then, but it still cropped up now and then.
“Sleep well, honey,” he whispered. At the sound of his voice, the kitten stretched, curled her paws, and then closed her cloudy blue eyes again.
Ila was sitting up in a chair, but she looked awful. He’d estimated her age at about forty. He revised it upward a couple of decades.
“Over the hump?” he asked softly.
“Reckon I’ll live. Not sure it’s worth it.” She nodded to the bed where Ava and Ermaline still slept. “Ava woke up a while back. Didn’t ask for the bucket this time. Must be over the worst.”
“I’d better look in on Aster.”
“I don’t envy you none. She’ll be ridin’ high on her broomstick after this, just you wait.”
Galen chuckled. Ila managed a weak smile. Ava snored, and Ermaline muttered something in her sleep about a full house.
Aster was on her knees holding the chamber pot in her arms, but at least she’d recovered enough to send him a malevolent look and tell him where he could go. Closing the door quietly, he decided she was on the mend. An hour ago she hadn’t been able to hiss at him, much less swear at him.
Willy was on his feet again. Tough old bird. He’d just come in from emptying a pail over the side. “Sorry ‘bout this, son. Won’t happen again. What don’t get et up first time around, I’ll give it away or chuck it over the side.”
“How’re the boys?”
“They’ll make it. Johnny come around wantin’ grits and coffee.”
“Godamighty.” Galen couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sick in his belly, but he did know Willy’s boiled coffee was no remedy. The stuff would dissolve paint. “You need a hand here?”
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