The Lost Baroness

by Judith B. Glad

  THE LOST BARONESS

  Behind the Ranges, Book VI

  By

  Judith B. Glad

  Something hidden. Go and find it.

  Go and look behind the Ranges--

  Something lost behind the ranges.

  Lost and waiting for you. Go.

  Rudyard Kipling: The Explorer

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2006

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003, 2006 by Judith B. Glad

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-014-4

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-014-X

  Previously published by Awe-Struck E-Books

  Cover photography and design by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Dedication

  My grandmothers became hotel maids after being widowed and forced to support themselves with no skills beyond housewifery. My daughters were hotel maids because such work was easy to find while they were learning other skills. They soon moved on to jobs that paid better. Many women can't move on because, like my grandmothers, they are all that stands between those they love and the wolf at the door.

  This book honors my grandmothers, my daughters, and all the women who daily perform the menial, invisible, and so necessary tasks that keep the rest of us comfortable.

  And let's not forget Neil, who does floors so I'll have time to write.

  * * * *

  Acknowledgements

  No book stands alone. In writing The Lost Baroness I sought advice and information from many sources. These folks were particularly helpful and are deserving of special mention:

  Bob Chehey, who knows just about every mushroom by its first name, and found me exactly the ones I needed.

  Britt-Mari Lord, who took my poor attempts at Swedish and made them say what I wanted them to.

  Liisa Penner, Clatsop County historian, who helped me 'see' Astoria in 1873.

  Diana Steiner, who dug up some really interesting German words, some of which were a little too interesting to use here.

  And of course, my critique partners, who find missing quotes, blue pencil unnecessary verbiage, and help me keep my characters behaving themselves, even the villains. Mary, RubyLee, Norma and Kat, thanks so much.

  * * * *

  A glossary of non-English words and phrases used in the story is at the end of the book.

  Prologue

  Somewhere in Eastern Europe, January, 1871

  Buffalo Lachlan stepped from the swift stream on numb, icy feet. Clumsy under his burden, he climbed the shallow bank, eased between the close-spaced shrubs. He gave silent thanks to the mud that was too frozen to take footprints.

  He hadn't heard the dogs since just after dawn. Maybe he'd confused them when he went into the water. Pausing briefly to draw a deep breath, he peered between the tangled branches. Beyond the band of shrubs, the forest was dim and shadowy. Patches of snow lingered where the dense canopy hid it from the sun.

  Staggering, he emerged into the open. Few shrubs grew in the shade of the enormous fir trees, giving the forest a cathedral-like appearance.

  "Damn little cover," he muttered.

  Eventually he stumbled into a glade where a rotting snag stood. At its base, he eased his burden to the ground and knelt beside the limp body, watching for any slight sign of life.

  At last he saw the chest move, a shallow lift and fall. Moving carefully, stiffly, Buff removed his filth-encrusted jacket and laid it across Anders. He shivered as an errant draft found its way inside his ragged shirt.

  Anders moved then, wrapped his arms around himself, as if holding in what little warmth he possessed. Buff saw he'd been bleeding again.

  Shit! We probably left a trail a blind man could follow.

  Wanting only to rest, to sleep, Buff forced himself to his feet and pushed his way through the surrounding brush. He should go back and make sure they'd left no sign of their passing. But first he had to take care of his friend. Within a few minutes he had gathered an armful of fir branches, never taking more than one from any tree, breaking them off carefully, so the white scar of torn wood would not be easily visible.

  He covered Anders with the branches. His pa had shown him this trick a long time ago. Who'd have thought he'd ever use it here? And he had a hunch he'd be using more of the woodscraft Pa had taught him before he got himself and Anders to safety. They were still a long way from the border.

  He tried to stand, for he knew he should fetch water. His legs refused to lift him. Kneeling there, he knew he could go no farther until he had rested. With a sigh, he burrowed under the fir branches next to Anders and wrapped his arm around the unconscious man. It wouldn't be the first time they'd slept thus entwined. The dungeon had been little warmer than the forest.

  Buff woke once to moonlight-silvered night. Beside him Anders seemed to be sleeping naturally, but his skin was still icy and his breathing shallow. He thought again of water, for his mouth was dry. Anders' wound, where the guard's thrown knife had buried itself deep, should be cleansed. In a moment he would rise, would fetch what he could carry in his cupped hands. In a moment...

  Birdcalls woke Buff before sunlight pierced the forest canopy. Immediately he checked Anders, who still lay in the curled-up position he'd taken when Buff put him down. To Buff's surprise, the younger man opened his eyes.

  "Buffalo?" He paused, licked his lips. "Are we safe?"

  "For the time being. How are you doing?"

  "Thirsty. Give me a moment and I will be ready to travel." He rolled to the side and tried to push himself upright. He fell back and lay still, his eyes closed. "I am sorry, Buffalo. Had I been quicker, we would have been away without notice."

  "Not with the moonlight. The guard would have seen us, sooner or later." They'd had to cross almost a mile of open ground before they reached the edge of the forest. "I'll get water," he said, rising.

  "No--" Anders lifted a hand to catch his pantleg. "No, stay, please."

  Kneeling again, Buff said, "You need to drink. There's a stream not far away."

  "Water will do me no good, my friend. I fear I am dying."

  "No you're not--"

  "You know I am." He coughed.

  Buff saw a froth of blood on Anders' pale lips. He wiped it away with a corner of his jacket. "Not if I can help it."

  Anders had been growing weaker, more ill, for some time. The months in the cold, dark dungeon had sapped his vitality, and the poor diet--some days they had bread with their water--had been hard on the slim young man who had grown up to a life of privilege. But he had never complained, and had often cheered Buff when it seemed as if they would die, forgotten, in Festung Uberderwelt's dungeons.

  The information they'd acquired before being caught would be old news by now. Still, as soon as he saw Anders to a safe haven, he'd report to Lord Heatherwood. Perhaps the Coalition could salvage something. Surely Ruprecht wouldn't have halted his very profitable operation because two inept young tourists had stumbled upon it.

  At least he and Anders had managed to convince their captors that they were merely tourists gone astray. Otherwise they'd not have lived a day.

  A low gro
an reminded him they'd have to be moving soon. But could they? Anders must have concealed his failing health for months. In the dim light of their underground prison, Buff had not seen how thin his cellmate had become, or how pale and infirm.

  Just as he had. Buff knew he wasn't the man he'd been when they were tossed into the dungeon--how long ago? It had been early summer when they'd been caught at their surveillance of the Festung. His reflexes were slow and his thinking dull. If he'd been more alert, the guard wouldn't have been alive to see them.

  At least the bastard would never abuse another prisoner.

  A hand plucked at his sleeve. He looked down at Anders. The man's gaunt but still aristocratic face was drawn and twisted with pain. "Sleep," Buff said. "We'll be here a little while yet."

  "Buffalo, promise me..."

  He caught Anders' hand, held it tightly. He could feel life slipping away.

  "Promise me you'll look for her." Anders' voice was stronger, his grip on Buff's wrist tight. "She's alive. I know she is. I can feel--"

  A shudder shook his body.

  After a moment Buff took back his coat and laid the lifeless hand across his friend's body.

  "I'll look for her, my friend," he vowed, knowing Anders Thorssen could no longer hear him. "I'll find her."

  Chapter One

  Columbia River Bar, January, 1873

  Eyes narrowed against the salt spray, Buffalo Lachlan stood at the rail of the Chinese Duchess, straining for a first glimpse of the shore. The waves crashing against the hull were a sure sign the ship was approaching the bar that made entering the Columbia River a challenge to even the most skilled seaman.

  He was almost there. Almost home.

  Home! He could be there in a week, if he traveled fast.

  If he didn't have a promise to keep.

  "The mate said we ought to be in port by sundown."

  Buff replied without turning his head. "It won't be soon enough for me. My feet are itching for solid land." The ship had been standing offshore for nine days, awaiting a break in the weather. This afternoon the waves were merely half again as high as the ship, the wind only a mild gale. Fairly calm conditions for the most dangerous bar in the world, according to the captain.

  The priest grabbed the rail as the ship shuddered, then dove into a trough. "Please God, we'll get there safely. This is like nothing I've ever seen."

  "Captain Hanks says our pilot is one of the best," Buff said. Right now he just hoped the captain hadn't lied. Even the fierce storm his ship had survived during the Atlantic crossing eight years ago hadn't been this violent, this tempestuous. He tightened his grip on the rail as the ship heeled over. Buff looked straight ahead, down into the brown-tinged water, wondering if his luck had run out at last.

  The priest's voice rose above the howl of the wind, Latin words running together into a tremulous moan. He'd done a lot of praying on this crossing from Honolulu, for the weather had been foul. Buff had heard his voice through the thin wall between their cabins, night after miserable, stormy night, a low, wordless murmur.

  Part of Buff exulted in the battle. Puny man against raging nature. One more exciting adventure in a life that had been full of them. Was he really ready to give it all up, to settle down and stay in one place?

  He just didn't know.

  Another dive, another recovery, time and again, until Buff wondered if any vessel made by the hands of man could withstand Nature's stunning power. For what seemed like hours, the ship fought the waves and the wind, a fragile leaf on an infinite river. Finally, as the fog-softened light dimmed, the waves subsided and the ship's prow turned toward the south shore. It steamed across the wide river towards a cluster of distant buildings.

  Astoria, Oregon.

  Was the woman he sought here? The last clue he'd found had pointed this direction, but that clue was more than thirteen years old. There was a good chance he'd find no trace of her, in Astoria or anywhere else.

  At last they were docked. The few debarking passengers hurried down the gangplank, eager to set foot on solid ground. Buff lingered to say goodbye to fellow passengers bound for ports to the north. Then he shook hands with Ezra Hanks. "A good voyage, Captain, but I have to admit I'm happy to be ashore again."

  "Not everyone's for the sea," the captain agreed, "or for the mountains. I feel penned in when I can't see the edge of the world."

  "Ah, but in the mountains the edge is sometimes a hundred miles away." Buff smiled. They had had this same argument all the way from Honolulu, and neither expected to win it.

  Hanks clapped him on the shoulder. "Give my best to your uncle, lad."

  "You'll probably see him before I do. I'll be staying hereabouts for a while." He sketched a salute. "Good sailing, Captain."

  At the bottom of the gangplank, Buff hesitated. Somehow it seemed like he should make some ceremony of his homecoming. Again he smiled. You could have come home anytime. Nothing was keeping you away.

  Nothing but itchy feet and a thirst for new places.

  And a promise.

  * * *

  Jaeger stepped into the deep shadow between two buildings. He watched young Lachlan pause and look around him, for all the world like a raw yokel on his first visit to the big city. How could anyone be quite that countrified, especially after making his way around the world?

  Despite a somewhat low taste in lodgings and entertainment, Lachlan seemed to slide through life without hindrance. That small contretemps in Honolulu had surely been less than it had appeared. An inept thief, a lucky thrust of the gold-headed cane, and rain-slick cobbles underfoot. Otherwise it would have been Lachlan lying half-conscious in the slime while his attacker stripped his pockets.

  He waited until Lachlan turned the corner, then stepped into the muddy street and followed. First he would find a room, for he must stay in this miserable hole as long as his quarry did.

  Perhaps he could find a woman who already had a room. Then he would leave no trace of his presence.

  * * *

  Siri staggered as a stone turned under her foot, then caught her balance. So tired. If only she could fall into her bed once she reached the hotel, but she could not. Tonight she had to finish the christening gown for the Warburton baby.

  She rubbed her fingertips together, aware of their roughness. It's a wonder they don't leave snags in the fabric. The lace trimming the long gown was handmade, delicate stuff brought from Brittany, the fabric a fine, almost transparent batiste.

  Light spilled from the open door of the Deep Six, the wildest and biggest saloon on the waterfront. She walked faster, knowing this part of town was no place for a decent woman once darkness fell.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Siri glanced over her shoulder. A tall man, head bent, was briefly silhouetted in the patch of light. Was he following her? She broke into a jog, not even slowing to pick her way across the muddy street marking the imaginary border between respectable Astoria and the waterfront.

  Once on the wooden sidewalk in front of the darkened haberdashery, she slowed again, but could not resist looking backward.

  He was still behind her.

  Even as her breath caught in her throat, she saw him turn the corner and disappear. Tack gode Gud! He had not been following her, after all.

  Her belly growled, reminding her that dinner had been many hours ago. Hotel employees were expected to eat when the food was set out. If they missed a meal, they went hungry until the next.

  She turned a corner and ducked into the Chinese store. Mrs. Leong kept a pot of tea on the stove at all hours. That and a cold rice ball would have to hold her until breakfast. They were all she could afford.

  "Good evening," she said to the tiny woman behind the counter.

  Mrs. Leong smiled and nodded. "Rain come morning," she said. She poured steaming tea into a handleless cup and set a fat rice ball in a chipped bowl. The pennies Siri laid on the counter disappeared into an apron pocket.

  With her tea and rice, Siri retreated to the corner behi
nd the stove where she sat at a small round table. Instead of lingering here, she knew she should be in her room, sewing, but the hotel seemed so far away. And she was so tired.

  Lulled by the warmth of the stove and her tea, Siri relaxed. Perhaps she almost slept, for when a man spoke, she jumped.

  "No woman here," Mrs. Leong said to him.

  "I'm not looking for a woman. I just want to know who deals in women here," the man said. His deep voice was mild, but Siri heard a hint of steel in it.

  "No woman here," Mrs. Leong repeated. "Rain come morning."

  "I wouldn't be surprised. Well, if you don't know who deals in women, then tell me who's boss here in Chinatown."

  Siri leaned forward, curious. The man was tall, slim, with a wild mop of curly golden hair. He wore a caped canvas coat that hung to the tops of his high boots, and held a broad-brimmed hat in one hand. Droplets of mist sparkled on the hat and on his shoulders.

  He doesn't look like a man who needs to buy a woman. She bit her lip. She would never have had a thought like that before she went to work at the hotel. Carleen Gilroy, the other maid, sometimes provided more than clean sheets and towels to guests. She wasn't at all shy about talking about her experiences. Siri had become far more worldly wise in the past three months.

  For a single mad moment, Siri wondered what intimate relations with this man might be like. Would he be quick and rough, as her husband had been? Or would he be, as Carleen had said some men could be, gentle and concerned with her pleasure as well as his? Siri shivered, then banished the thought.

  She missed Mrs. Leong's reply, but heard the man say, "I'm looking for a shipload of women who might have arrived twelve or thirteen years ago. Was he Boss then?"

  "No Boss so long ago. Not many China people here then." Mrs. Leong shrugged as if that settled that.

  "Thank you, ma'am. I'll go see him." He turned to go, then reversed himself. "Li Ching, you said? Did he come here from the gold camps? Tall, bald fellow. Speaks good English?"