Beholden

by Bronwyn Williams

  “I understand.” He handed her back up into the gig, and Katy told herself it was only her imagination that made her think his hand lingered on her arm a moment longer than necessary. Or that his eyes lingered on her face just a beat of the heart too long.

  If he’d never kissed her, she wouldn’t be feeling such things, but he had. And she wanted him to do it again, and it probably showed on her face, in her eyes.

  Looking everywhere but at the man beside her, she tugged at a button on her sleeve, slipped it through the loop and then back again.

  Ignoring her as if she weren’t even there, he clucked up the mare, and they wheeled around on the weed-choked riverbank and headed back toward town.

  “Nice sunset,” he observed after several minutes had passed in silence.

  “Indeed it is.”

  After a while he said, “I hear you’re thinking of singing for the men.”

  “No such thing. That is, I was asked, but I declined.” She stole a sidelong look at him and caught his grin.

  “You declined, hmm? Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Well, as to that, I can’t say.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you can, but, Katy, half your audience is male anyway. At least the whole back row. What difference would it make to move to a larger room with a larger stage?”

  She had noticed a few gentlemen accompanying their wives for the early evening entertainment. To keep from being nervous, she’d put it from her mind. “How did you know? You weren’t there.”

  “There aren’t too many secrets on the waterfront, Katy. Your friend Mr. Bynum was saying just the other day that if it hadn’t been for your cat, Bellfort would never have heard you sing, and if it hadn’t been for those two boys, you’d never have found the cat. So I guess you owe your fame and success to Heather.”

  “Malarkey.”

  “Malarkey? I thought her name was Heather.”

  “No, I meant malarkey to my fame and success. Well . . . not my success, because I’m earning prodigious sums of money, but never fame.”

  “Prodigious sums, hmm,” he said, and she cut him a quick glance to see if he was making fun of her.

  When they came to Poindexter Creek Bridge, she began gathering up her purse and her sewing basket. Why couldn’t he have stayed away until she’d taught her heart to behave in his presence? Given a few more weeks she might have forgotten the way his hands looked on the reins, so strong and square and capable. The way that tiny little scar deepened at one end of his mouth when he smiled. The way sometimes he would touch her and his eyes would change color, going dark as night for no reason at all.

  He drove her right to the edge of the wharf and helped her down from the high seat. She tugged at the flat brim of her hat and then brushed a wrinkle from her skirt, all the while trying to think of something clever to say to keep him there for a little longer.

  Just until she could think of some way to keep him forever.

  “Give my regards to Tara. Tell her she might want to show off her card tricks to Bellfort’s customers, I’m sure they’d be fascinated.”

  His voice was so droll, she had to look a second time to be sure he was teasing. “There’s the devil in you, sir, and I’ll do no such.”

  He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. If the world had come to a blazing end at that moment, Katy was certain she wouldn’t have noticed.

  *

  “Katy, Katy, wake up,” someone hissed in her dream.

  Katy swatted the dream away.

  “You have to wake up! Katy, someone is getting murdered.”

  “Oh, Tara, not now . . . can it wait until morning?”

  “Please, oh, please—it’s awful! You have to do something!”

  Knowing there would be no more sleep until the child unburdened herself, Katy sat up and shoved her braid over her shoulder. “All right, what do you think you saw this time? Another explosion? A gunshot? Lovey, automobiles make all sorts of horrid sounds. What you heard was probably—”

  “No, Katy—listen to me, I didn’t hear anything, I saw it, and it was real. His eyes were popping out, and his mouth was open, and then his back bent out and he was falling—it was awful!”

  “To be sure, it must have been, but even the worst dreams don’t last once the sun comes up. It must be almost—”

  Tara grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. She looked ready to burst into tears. “Don’t go back to sleep, Katy, please. Would you please go get Captain Galen? He’ll know what to do.”

  “Be sensible. We’re not on the Queen now. Go back to sleep, and I promise I’ll go see Galen tomorrow and tell him—”

  Tara was crying noisily, clutching handsful of Katy’s nightgown. “You have to do something,” she wailed. “He can’t breathe. He’s right outside now, near the foot of the gangplank. Please!”

  “All right, lovey, stop crying, Katy will take care of it.”

  Reluctantly, Katy got out of bed and reached for her wrapper. Something was happening—or had happened. Or soon would happen. Certainly not a murder, but she knew well enough that neither of them would sleep until she’d gone and looked and come back and told Tara that all was peaceful.

  She left the child huddled fearfully in the middle of the bed, her red-rimmed eyes still fearful. “Promise you’ll call someone?”

  Katy promised. “If I see anything at all troublesome, I’ll send the watchman to wake up Captain Jack.”

  “What if the watchman’s asleep?”

  “Then I’ll wake him up. Now, hush and let me go.”

  So that I can get back and claim a few more hours of sleep before I have to get up and go to work, Katy added silently. Not that she’d be able to sleep. Neither of them would sleep, even if there was nothing at all to see. Tara’s bad dreams—or seeings, or whatever they were—even when they were entirely without foundation, were disturbing.

  There was no sign of the Belle’s night watchman, which was hardly surprising. Nothing ever happened once the gamblers went home to gloat over their winnings or explain their losses. There was nothing to guard against.

  The town clock struck four. The last echo faded away, and then all was quiet. Nevertheless, Katy tiptoed across the dew-wet deck and leaned against the rail. The only light came from a few lanterns left burning outside one of the warehouses, and the lights from the freight depot. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust. And then, in the time it took to draw in a strangled breath, she saw him.

  He was standing near the edge of the wharf, about fifty feet away, holding something in his hands. She couldn’t see what it was. A bit of string, perhaps. Light from the warehouse lantern shone on the side of his face. She stared hard, hard enough to know she had never seen him before.

  For endless moments, they gazed at one another. He looked as surprised as she was. She started to call out, to ask if anything was wrong, but thought better of it. At least he was alive. He wasn’t being murdered. He didn’t look as if he’d been injured.

  And then he was gone. Just like that, he disappeared. She thought she caught a glimmer of movement between the warehouses, but it could have been a dog. Or a shadow.

  For the first time since she’d left Ireland in a cool, foggy drizzle, Katy felt cold clean through to her bones.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tara was sound asleep. It wasn’t the first time she’d roused the household with a nightmare she mistook as a seeing, and then, once she had everyone all upset and rushing around to prove it was all a dream, fell asleep again. It was as if, in the telling, she had discharged her responsibility.

  Perhaps she had. After living with Tara’s gift all these years, Katy was no closer to understanding it.

  Lying in her own bed, she thought about what had happened. She probably should tell someone, but what to tell? That Tara had dreamed she saw someone being murdered, and there was a man standing outside on the wharf?

  But he was alive, not murdered. There’d been no sign of a body.

/>   Katy thought of the cholera that had turned out to be food poisoning. She thought about the explosion that had turned out to be a celebration. Likely, there had been another fight on the docks. Such things happened. Men drank; men fought. Tomorrow they would nurse their battle wounds together, and tomorrow night they’d likely drink together and fight together again.

  *

  It was a bleary-eyed Katy who set off for work the next morning. Tara, with never a word about what had happened, was helping Peggy spread the beds, having already devoured an enormous breakfast of fried fish, fried potatoes, and preserved figs.

  Some of Katy’s tiredness lifted, however, when Mrs. Baggot allowed her to help select pattern pieces for a morning dress for one of her best clients. They decided on a straight skirt with all the fullness in the back, a plain band collar, and leg o’ mutton sleeves, with gold buttons and three rows of gold piping. The rich brown brocade needed no further embellishment.

  Jack Bellfort met her that evening after work, having had business in town. He was driving the Duryea. There were several steam-powered automobiles in town, but Jack’s was the only gasoline machine. Katy thought he rather enjoyed the distinction, from the grin on his face when people scurried out of the way and then stared until he was out of sight.

  She was coming to know him fairly well.

  Talk was impossible over the noise. While he stopped in at Mr. Robinson’s General Store, she thought about whether or not to confide in him. In the end, she decided she would sleep better if she told someone. She was as bad as Tara, passing on the responsibility, but he was in a far better position to know how to deal with it.

  So she told him about the nightmare Tara had had the night before, that was so real she’d had to get out of bed and go up on deck to assure the child that no one had been murdered. She even managed to laugh in the telling of it.

  “Murdered?” he repeated, standing there with a crank in one hand, a pair of driving goggles in the other.

  Katy shrugged. “It might have been all the salty ham and sweet potato biscuits she ate for supper. And pickles. A body can’t sleep easily on a supper that heavy.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. He fitted the crank in place, and Katy got herself in again, flinching at the roar of the engine when the thing caught up on the fifth try.

  Well. She’d done her duty. There was some satisfaction in that. They drove the rest of the way with no further comment. When he shut off his popping and snorting contraption, she climbed down and thanked him for the ride.

  “You’re most welcome. And Katy—about this business with Tara—don’t mention it to anyone else, all right? Not that there’s anything to it. If there’d been a murder last night, believe me, the news would be all over town this morning. All the same, gamblers are a superstitious lot, and I’d as soon not give them anything to fret over. God knows there’s been trouble enough without that.”

  Katy wanted to ask, what trouble? She decided she was better off not knowing. None of it concerned her, anyway.

  *

  Two evenings later, Galen came to hear her sing.

  Jack Bellfort met him coming on board. “What’s the matter, McKnight, not enough going on aboard the Queen to keep you busy? I heard you’d put the old lady up for sale.”

  “News travels.”

  “Then it’s true? I’d be interested in hearing Aster’s reaction.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear it all the way over here.”

  Jack pursed his lips. “Like that, huh? Is she going to take it off your hands?”

  Ignoring the question, Galen switched topics. “I understand Miss O’Sullivan will be performing for a larger audience tonight.”

  Jack looked amused. “You know damned well where she’ll be singing. If you’d like to stay for the concert, you’re more than welcome. And, McKnight—rest assured Katy will come to no harm while she’s under my protection.”

  “I believe I’d rephrase that, if I were you, Bellfort.”

  “No need. I look after my people, McKnight. Katy no longer works for you.”

  Galen was well aware of that fact. If he didn’t feel quite the relief he’d expected to achieve in having the two of them off his hands, that was no one’s business but his own.

  When he would have paid his way, Bellfort waved him on through the doors. “Professional courtesy. I might drop over one night to take in your entertainment.”

  Galen shot him a sour look and took a seat as far away from the small stage as he could find. Already, men were leaving the tables to find a chair. Aboard the Albermarle Belle, one end of the grand salon had been set aside for entertainment, the rest of the area set up with tables that could be moved out for dancing. The hard-core gamblers were in another salon on the second deck.

  Moments after he took his place, the lights were lowered. Three musicians stepped up onto the low platform, and then Katy came out. He could tell by the way she carried herself that she was tense. Even from here he could see the whiteness of her knuckles as she held her hands knotted before her.

  He wanted to touch her, to draw the tension from her slight frame onto his own shoulders, as if such a thing were even possible. Swearing silently under his breath, he reminded himself that he was present only as a well-wisher. After all, he was her sponsor in a way. He was responsible for her being here.

  Good luck, sweet Katy. You deserve it.

  He’d walked off in the middle of another fight with Aster. Ever since he’d done her the courtesy of telling her he was selling his share of the Queen, she’d been hounding him to sign over his shares and allow her to pay it off with a portion of the profits over a period of years. She’d put up her usual full-volume argument. The louder she’d got, the quieter he’d grown. A man just naturally didn’t like to argue with a woman, especially a termagant like Aster. Especially when she flat-out refused to listen to reason.

  “You owe me that much, Galen McKnight! You can’t expect me to go into business with a stranger!”

  “Your father did.”

  “Leave my father out of this! And how could you do it to him? You love this boat! How can you turn it over to someone who’ll run it into the ground?”

  He’d refrained from mentioning that the one most likely to run her aground was Aster. To call her headstrong was like calling the river moist. “Aster, listen—in the first place, I care enough about the old tub not to want to see her sink. In the second place, I can’t afford to take on any more paper. I’m mortgaged up to the hilt, as it is. In the third place, I’m not a gambler. Never have been; never wanted to be.”

  She’d scoured him from head to toe with a mocking look. “Of course not,” she’d jeered. “That’s why you take such pains to dress like a stodgy old businessman.”

  Painfully aware that his somewhat theatrical attire, fashioned after an infamous gambler from Nevada, stuck out like a sore thumb in the small, southeastern town, he’d said, “But then, that’s what I really am at heart. A stodgy businessman. It’s all I ever wanted to be.”

  And while it hadn’t always been true, it was true enough now. He’d lost his taste for adventure the hard way. “Like any sensible man, I took advantage of a windfall and made the most of it while it suited my purposes.”

  She’d screeched some more, largely repetitive. Galen had walked out mid-screech and strolled down to the Belle. Earlier, when Ila had mentioned that Katy would be performing in the main salon tonight, he’d had no intention of coming to hear her. Even now he wasn’t sure if he’d have come if Aster hadn’t been after him for hours.

  What he needed was Katy, singing one of her funny Irish ballads in that clear, lilting voice.

  What he needed was a nightingale, not a fish crow.

  Flexing his shoulders, he forced Aster and her demands from his mind and concentrated on the tableau before him.

  Katy was wearing silk again. There were shadows under her eyes. Unless he was mistaken, she was wearing cosmetics, and that irked him, because this particular
lily didn’t need gilding. Certainly not in a room full of reckless young blades who might mistake a painted face for enticement.

  What’s more, that gown she was wearing was cut far too low. He could almost see the shadow of the valley between her breasts. And dammit, she had no business showing that much ankle! She was a singer, not some high-kicking showgirl.

  But then the music struck up. Katy lifted her head and began to sing, and he allowed the spell of her voice to wash over him.

  She was good, he had to admit it. No trills, frills, or flourishes. No flirtatious moves. She sang—he’d heard her say it once—for the joy of it. It showed. After a lengthy ballad about a sailor who went down off Holland, leaving a brokenhearted lass behind, one of the cigar girls leaning against the far wall wiped a tear from her eye. One or two gentlemen cleared their throats, and one even flourished a handkerchief.

  She sang a number he’d never heard before, partly in Gaelic, partly in English. The words meant nothing, it was the quality of her voice that got to him. Clear, sweet, and true. Like Katy herself.

  Galen never moved a muscle. Aster and her demands were forgotten as the music wove its spell around him, transporting him to another time, another place. God knows he’d never been so miserable in all his life as he’d been during those interminable weeks he’d spent in a cold, damp fishing camp on Ireland’s rugged northwest coast.

  And yet, it had brought him Katy. And Tara. And in his weaker moments, which seemed to come more and more often lately, he was forced to admit that his life would have been far poorer without them.

  *

  Katy didn’t know quite when the muscles in her throat began to ease. Somewhere between “An Bhruinnlin Bheashach” and “Rocking the Cradle.”

  Somewhere between looking out into a sea of strange masculine faces and focusing on one familiar face.

  He’d come to hear her sing, to wish her well. She almost wished he hadn’t. The sooner she got over her foolishness, the sooner she could get on with her future. With all the luck in the world, it wasn’t going to be easy. She didn’t know why she hadn’t realized it before, but then, a dream never seemed so real as when it was viewed from a great distance. It was only as it grew near that the flaws and cracks and hidden hazards began to show.