The Lost Baroness

by Judith B. Glad

  "Buy you a drink?" Buff slid into the rickety chair across the table from the old man as he spoke.

  Karl Lindholm would have been a tall man, had his head not fallen between his shoulders until he was almost hunchbacked. Straggly food-stained whiskers covered his lower face and thick, white eyebrows almost concealed his watery blue eyes. "I'll drink anybody's whiskey," he said. A faint lilt colored his words.

  Buff sat silent while the old man threw back the first drink. When he poured a second from the bottle the bartender had left on the table, Buff picked up his own glass. "Skål!" he said.

  "You Svensk?"

  "No, but I spent some time around Stockholm, learned a bit of the lingo," Buff told him. "Pretty country."

  "Ah, lad, it ain't nothin' compared to this. I left there back in 'thirty-two and never missed it a day of my life. Too dam' cold and no opportunity for a man with ambition." He swallowed the last of his second drink, poured another. "I hadn't been here five years when me and Arne bought our boat." Peering from under his eyebrows, he said, "Did I tell you me and Arne had us a boat? And I've got land of my own--a hundred sixty acres. Never woulda' had that back in the old country."

  "I heard you did. In fact, that's why I'm here. To ask you about Arne Hansen."

  "Arne's dead. Drowned." He lowered his head, swiped at his nose. "I wasn't there. That's why he drowned. Poor old Arne. He was a good man. A good friend."

  "I'm sure he was. I've heard nothing but good about him. He left a wife and daughter, didn't he?"

  Lindholm sat up and looked straight across at Buff. "A wife! God, yes, he had a wife, poor fellow. No man deserves a woman like Gudrun. Crankiest woman I ever did see. If you told her the sun was shining, she'd predict a drought."

  "What about the daughter."

  "She died, oh musta' been around '56 or so. Pathetical little chick. She never was robust, and she finally just faded away." A filthy hand swiped across his eyes. "Poor old Arne, he was melancholy for a long time after."

  So it was the truth. A good thing I came. "But I thought there was another girl. Sigrid? Isn't she Arne Hansen's daughter?"

  The old man sat back, seeming to think. "Sigrid? Or was it Siri? Yeah, I think that's what Arne called her. After his ma." He closed his eyes.

  Buff waited, knowing that old folks often told a story in their own time.

  "We'd had one storm after another that year. Folks wondered if summer'd ever come. It never did, not really. The salmon were still runnin' come September, but we weren't catchin' many, mostly because we couldn't get out one day in five." His eyes opened. "Worst season I saw, in all the years I fished this Coast. Never seen winds like we had. Not even in the North Sea."

  After a moment's pause, he continued. "We'd been fishing offshore for three days, working rough seas, when we spied the flares. Arne was all for goin' to give aid, but I argued with him. Well, there was no stopping him, but we was too late. The vessel broke up before we got there. All was left was debris."

  Buff's belly clenched. "What vessel was she?"

  "Oh, hell, I can't recall. She was out of Macao, though. I remember that. I've still got a piece of her captain's cabin, all painted up with gold and red. One of the girls was clingin' to it."

  "Girls?"

  "Ship was a slaver." He hacked and spat onto the floor. "We never did find out how many girls she carried, but they was all consigned to whorehouses along the Coast." Another hack, another expectoration. "Filthy business, that. They wasn't more than babes, none of them."

  "You rescued some then." Buff leaned forward, willing the old man to tell him what he wanted to hear.

  "We pulled three out of the water alive, twice that many bodies. Another boat picked up more. I heard tell that ten or twelve girls were saved. Wouldn't surprise me if four or five times that many weren't." He poured yet another drink, staring morosely into it without drinking.

  Buff waited a while, then finally said, "The girls? Were they all Oriental. Ah...colored?"

  Lindholm's head moved sideways. "Guess I can tell you. It's been long enough." Another long pause, and again he seemed to be thinking. "There was one, near dead she was. I pulled her out myself. She was tangled in some rigging, else she'd have gone under. We figured she was dead, too, until she started choking."

  "But she was not Oriental? She was white?"

  "Like a snow maiden. White hair, white skin. Even her eyes were like blue ice. Poor girl."

  "Poor girl? Why?"

  "She couldn't speak, wouldn't do nothin'. Just lay there, limp and silent. It was like she'd lost her mind."

  Not wanting an answer to his next question, Buff had to ask it anyhow. "What happened to her? Did she die later?"

  "Die? What gave you that idea? I thought you said you knew her?"

  "Well, no, I didn't say so, but I do. And she says Arne Hansen was her father."

  "And he called her daughter, once she came to herself and started talking again. Gudrun, now, she never took to the girl the way Arne did. But he put his foot down. There was no telling where she came from, so he took her for his own."

  Only one missing piece was left. "She spoke Swedish?"

  "She didn't speak nothin' for a long time. Then when she did, it was like she was learnin' to talk all over again. Whatever she knew before, it was gone. All of it. Arne said once it was like having a newborn babe." Leaning back, he picked up the glass and drained it. "Pretty little thing she was, once she got some meat on her bones." His words were slurred now, and his eyes tended to wander.

  Buff poured more whiskey into his glass. "How old a girl would you say she was?"

  Lindholm scratched his head. "Well, now, from her size Arne figured she was about twelve. He decided to make her birthday the eighth of September, the day they found her." He cackled. "Mighty big babe she was. Purt' near as tall as Gudrun, even then. Last time I saw her, she was like a beanpole, as tall as Arne but skinny."

  A curious sense of completion filled Buff. All the pieces were there, and he had them just about fitted together. The trouble was, he still had no proof that Siri Trogen was Astrid Thorsdotter, and without solid evidence, she had no claim on the fortune that was waiting for her.

  He laid some coins on the table. "Have yourself a good meal on me, Mr. Lindholm. And I thank you kindly for the information."

  He stopped briefly to hand the bartender a card. "Let me know if he ever needs help. Or if you can't get hold of me, send word to the Dewitt Shipping office in Portland."

  * * *

  Siri finished the embroidery late Sunday afternoon. "If Buffalo does not return tonight, I will have to ask Carleen to deliver it tomorrow," she said aloud, needing the sound of another voice. Mondays were busy days in the hotel, and Carleen had merely greeted her as she handed in the dinner tray.

  When the light knock came, she hurried to the door, hoping it was Buffalo. But it was only Carleen, with a supper tray.

  "Toadstool soup tonight. I only brought you a little, because I know you don't like it."

  "I do not like mushroom soup as you do," Siri agreed, as she took the tray. "But you have brought me too much food again. If I eat all of this, I will not sleep." The tray held enough food for three people, at the very least.

  "This is in case Buff gets back tonight. He'll come up the outside stairs. Chu gave him a key. Now, I've got to get back. Mrs. W's in a ferment tonight." She winked and was gone.

  Siri set the tray down and pulled a chair to the table. She lifted the napkin. A small pot of soup, half a loaf of bread, and half a meat pie. She dipped the spoon into the soup, knowing if she didn't eat the soup hot, she wouldn't be able to swallow it.

  It had a woodsy flavor, as usual. Bao purchased the mushrooms from his countrymen who gathered them on the hills behind town. The small fungi brought the aroma and taste of the forest to whatever dish they accompanied. She ate a few swallows, then set her spoon down. Just bread and butter would be enough supper.

  * * *

  Monday morning the fo
g was gone, blown away by a stiff, cold wind. The low clouds had cleared too, and now the sky was a clear, cold blue. The low winter sun was surrounded by a bright ring of sundogs, a sure sign of bitter cold coming.

  The steamer had engine trouble on its way over from Astoria and limped into its slip well after noon on Monday. Buff paced the dock and fretted, eager to get back to Siri. He could hardly wait to see her face when he told her who she really was.

  But as he paced, the doubts started piling up. Should he tell her? He tried to put himself in her place, learning she was heiress to a fortune, possibly to a title, but might not be able to prove it. By the time the ferry was repaired and ready to depart late in the afternoon, he'd about convinced himself that the less she knew, the happier she'd be.

  At least until he could find proof of her identity.

  He laughed aloud, the sound echoing across the water. No wonder she'd looked familiar. She was Anders' twin. His quest was done.

  The ferry lost steam halfway across Young's Bay. Passengers and crewmen all working, they poled her to a safe moorage near Smith's Point, short of the Columbia's inexorable current. The passengers only had to wade a few yards to reach shore.

  Buff's underwear was sweat-soaked and his boots and trousers were sodden. Each breath felt as if he was inhaling ice crystals. Damn! Astoria's supposed to have mild winters.

  The night sky was clear, with stars seeming close enough to touch. Eager to reach Siri, he left the other passengers to spend the night in a ramshackle hut and walked rapidly toward town, using the heat of his exertion to counteract the effect of his wet clothing. His slicker kept out the wind, and soon he was warm, all except his feet.

  Even from several blocks away, he could see that the big wooden building was not the dimly lit, quiet place he'd expected to see. Every window on the bottom two floors blazed light, and some of the upper ones, too. His window was the only dark one on this side of the building.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Siri found herself unaccountably sleepy soon after supper. She had slept long and deeply the night before, so she should not be nodding now. After stabbing herself with a needle twice, she set her sewing aside.

  As she rose to undress, she had a sudden dizzy spell. It passed quickly. Perhaps she had stood too quickly. The water in the ewer was cool, and felt good against the too-warm skin of her face when she washed. How she wished she could remove the wide band that held her arm immobile. She itched. A bath would be heaven!

  Undressing was even more difficult than it had been the night before. Siri didn't know what she would have done if she'd been wearing her usual skirt and blouse, with a camisole and two petticoats underneath. The Chinese garments were not nearly so complicated. She had slept in one of Buffalo's nightshirts last night, and would again, liking the faint masculine scent of it.

  The dizziness struck again as she climbed into the bed, followed by a sudden sharp pain in her belly. Weak and shaking, she fell back against the pillows and waited for the sensations to ease. The pain settled into a dull ache, not quite a cramp, but the dizziness intensified. She closed her eyes, and the room revolved around her. After a moment, she felt herself slipping into sleep.

  She awoke minutes or hours later. So dark. Not a spark of light anywhere. Her body was trembling and taut. She was overcome by a terrible urge to get up and run. Somewhere. Anywhere! Just to get away.

  A laugh bubbled to her lips, yet she wanted to weep. For her stolen children, for her father, lost at sea. For herself, in love with a man who would soon move on and leave her behind.

  Just as everyone she'd ever loved had abandoned her.

  The image of a fair woman came into her mind, and she heard a childish voice calling to her. But not to her, for it called, "Astrid! Astrid!"

  Who is Astrid? Siri felt she should know.

  Her wrists hurt, and her ankles. She could not move her arm. I am chained! Let me go. Oh, please. I want my mother!

  Anders! Anders, please save me!

  Pappaaaa!

  She rolled to the side and toppled off a cliff. She fell and fell. So far. Endlessly.

  She landed on her right shoulder. Pain shot down her arm and across her chest.

  For a long time she lay unmoving, her face pressed against a cold, hard surface. Gradually the pain subsided, but she could not move, could not roll over and sit up. Her left hand was trapped beneath her body, and her right was held close by bonds around her chest. She was naked and freezing, and lacked the strength to save herself. She would drown here, trapped in these tangles of rope, her body encased in salty ice, to float forever upon the waves of an indifferent sea.

  Faraway voices babbled, shouted, screamed, laughed. But no one came to succor her. She tried to crawl across the surface of the ice floe on which she rode, but it was slick, and the white shroud she wore twisted about her, hampering her movements. The darkness was broken now by a line of light on the horizon, a narrow ray that stayed the same until she was convinced the sun would never rise.

  Siri watched the line of light, hoping it would brighten. After two or three years it split, became three short lines, just as a peal of thunder boomed. Again a voice called to her, but this one was deep, familiar. And it called her name.

  "Siri! Siri, damn it, are you in there?"

  * * *

  The back door stood open. Chu was lying on the floor of the kitchen, surrounded by a pool of dirty, soapy water. The enamel dishpan was over against the settee, upside down. Buff paused long enough to check that he was breathing, before he pulled the skinny cook over closer to the stove and out of the puddle. He grabbed a coat from a peg by the door and tossed it over Chu, then dashed down the hall and up the stairs to the parlor.

  The commodore was sprawled at the foot of the next flight, and beyond him Mrs. Welkins lay propped against the wall outside the manager's apartment. Buff looked past her through the door and saw her husband face-down on the floor.

  "Lachlan?"

  Turning around, Buff saw the rug merchant who had the room next to his trying to get out of one of the easy chairs in the parlor. He went to the man, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Stay there," he said. "What happened?"

  "Poison." Singh's voice was hoarse. "Poison in the food. Everyone sick." He coughed, winced. "I sent Tuomas... ahh...doctor." He bent forward, clutching his belly.

  "You sent Tuomas after the doctor? When? How long ago?"

  "Don't know...long time...the captain...ver' sick..."

  "Will you be all right?"

  "Yes. I'll...tend them." He gestured weakly at the three people in sight. "Go...Captain..."

  Buff found the captain's door standing wide. He went through the empty sitting room to the bedroom. The old man lay on the floor near the corner screen. Kneeling, Buff put two fingers against his jaw. His heart beat was thin, thready, and irregular. Scooping him up, Buff laid him on the bed and pulled a comforter over him. Not knowing what had made him sick this time, he was afraid to do anything. Especially if Singh was right.

  Poison. Buff's initial reaction was Absurd!

  Singh was crawling toward the commodore when Buff went through the parlor again. He could get them as comfortable as possible, while Buff went to Siri.

  Two bodies were on the stairs, MacLain and Lifton, both coastwise traders who were off on their routes as often as not. Just their bad luck to be in town this weekend. Both were breathing well, so Buff left them where they lay. They seemed more asleep than unconscious. He checked the rooms on the third floor. The banker was in his bed, but didn't rouse when Buff shook him. Shit! He was breathing regularly though, and his pulse was steady, so maybe he'd be all right.

  The other rooms were empty. Not surprising, considering that one belonged to a saloonkeeper who never ate supper in the hotel and another to a ferry captain who often stayed over in Chinook, where he had a lady friend.

  "Has the doctor showed up yet?" he called down the stairwell.

  "No...not yet." Singh's voice was stronger, but stil
l shaky and hesitant.

  Resisting the urge to dash to his own door, Buff went to the left when he reached the fourth floor. Pflug and Gans both were in their rooms. Gans was in bed and seemed to be sleeping normally, but didn't respond to Buff's hand on his shoulder. The brewmaster was agitated, pacing the floor, kicking the bedposts, crying out and flinging his arms about. He took a swing at Buff, but his aim was as erratic as his movements. Buff took the lamp, fearing Pflug might knock it over and start a fire.

  The millwright, whose room was beyond Buff's, lay in the hallway by Singh's door. He was half-awake and moving restlessly, but was unresponsive when Buff spoke to him. "At least he's not unconscious," Buff said, stepping over him. He finally reached his room.

  The porcelain knob turned but the door didn't budge.. Well, of course not. I told her to keep it locked. And he'd given Siri his key, so she could lock it from the inside. He pounded. "Siri? Siri, open the door."

  Nothing.

  "Siri, damn it, are you in there?"

  * * *

  Jaeger listened to Lachlan's progress from room to room, and when he deemed it safe to follow, he went to the corner by the stairs and peered down the hall, before dodging back out of sight. He wished he could see the fool's reaction when he burst into the room where his woman lay dying.

  Once before this Jaeger had used the mushrooms, when a vengeful lord wanted to be rid of his brother. They worked quickly and were almost always deadly.

  How fortunate he had been able to find them in this distant place. Once he had listened to the ongoing argument between the old captain and the banker about what had caused the illness they had all suffered some weeks ago, he had known how he could remove the woman who was distracting Lachlan from his quest.

  He smiled as he heard the door split. Lachlan would find that his good luck had deserted him.

  * * *

  Siri screamed when the monster crashed through the door. She tried to escape him, but his long arms scooped her from the sea-girt rock where she lay. Before she could scratch or bite him, he dropped her on a warm cloud and covered her with silken sheets. She stopped fighting and clung to the insubstantial stuff, afraid to fall again.