Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  She must not get too used to such luxury. It wouldn’t do for her to become as spoiled as Sean. She had her own way to make in the world, and his. Sighing, she looked around her, at the polished woods with their scent of beeswax, the soft rug and rich fabrics. No, such things would not be for her, nor for her son, not for a long time to come. She did not need them, certainly not, but how much better it would be for Sean if the wealth they represented was hers to bestow.

  Useless, idle thoughts. As well to wish she could turn back the clock, let Ward know he was to have a child before he died. As well to wish Ward could see his son, could hold him. What would he think of this child of theirs? Would he be glad or sorry, proud or indifferent?

  Her reverie was interrupted by a quiet knock. At her invitation, Nathan entered and came with slow steps to stand at the foot of her bed.

  “Mrs. Anson said you were better. I had to come and see for myself.”

  “Yes,” Serena answered, surveying his face with its look of haggard sleeplessness accenting the thinness. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been lying here all evening thinking of how much I owe you for the good care you have been taking of me.”

  “Misplaced gratitude, Serena. I should be thanking you for allowing me the privilege, Are you really better?”

  “I think I must be.”

  “I — I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you, or to your baby.”

  “It wasn’t your fault I was out in the weather that night,” she protested.

  “I could have found shelter for you sooner, instead of being so set on bringing you here.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nathan. I think I — we both — will be just fine.”

  “It won’t be my fault if you aren’t.” Nathan looked away. Noticing the fire that had burned down to coals, he moved toward it. His expression serious, he set the firescreen to one side and knelt to lift wood from the log basket, laying it across the andirons.

  “I — I’m not your responsibility, Nathan. I wish I could make you understand that.”

  “You can’t,” he said without looking at her, “because it isn’t so.”

  “I don’t—” Serena began before she was halted by a bout of coughing that shook the bed and left her spent.

  “You shouldn’t try to talk,” Nathan said, setting the firescreen in place once more and dusting his hands on the handkerchief he took from his pocket. “And I know I probably shouldn’t upset you. But there is something I have to say, something that concerns the subject we were discussing. No, don’t interrupt. It may take me a while to get to the point, but I’ll make it.”

  Serena, held by the look of strain in his hazel eyes and the firm resolution in his voice, watched as he returned to stand with his hands braced on the footboard of the bed.

  “When I brought you here, Serena, it wasn’t out of the goodness of my heart. I brought you to Bristlecone because this was where I wanted you, where I had dreamed of seeing you for months. I thought once I had you here, you would not be able to leave until I had made my appeal, played on your sympathies, overwhelmed you with all the things I would give you, all I could do for you and the baby you were going to have without benefit of marriage. If all else failed I would make it a business proposition, your company for my money. And then you became so sick. It began to look as if you might escape me after all, though not in the way I had thought. The doctor said you were not as strong as you should be. It was his opinion that you could go into early labor at any hour. I decided to gamble. If I won, I would have you and your child the rest of your lives; if I lost, you would still belong to me, if only in name, whether alive or dead.”

  As her eyes widened, he gave a slow nod. “You guessed it. I brought in a preacher. I told him you had consented to the marriage, but were too ill to remember. He seemed to believe it after I gave him a shameless bribe and a quick glimpse of the bride. The ceremony was performed in this room. Mrs. Anson and her daughter were witnesses. I’m sorry, Serena, but you are Mrs. Nathan Benedict. No, I take that back. I’m not sorry for the fact, only that it had to be this way.”

  “It’s impossible,” she whispered.

  “No. Since you were incapacitated, Mrs. Anson helped you sign your name. The proper documents have been duly recorded at the county seat.”

  “But marriage, Nathan? Surely there was no need?”

  “There was every need. If I accepted your child as my own, I would earn your gratitude, gratitude that might possibly turn into something warmer someday.”

  “But, since you’ve told me the truth, what now?”

  “I don’t know. I still feel the same, except I want us to start from here with no subterfuge, no blackmail. It’s not your gratitude I want, nor a hold on you in name only. I want you, however much or little you can give me of yourself. I won’t rush you, or ask for what you can’t give. And I swear I will try to give no more than you can take.”

  It was a magnificent offer, one most women would grab with both hands. Nathan was an attractive man, with the easy manners of a gentleman. He was kind and compassionate and generous, and above all, wealthy. Most ordinary men would have considered that they were doing her a favor by marrying her, to say nothing of a man who was the object of every matchmaking mama in the district, if not the better portion of the state. Why then was she so troubled, why did she have this persistent feeling that there was more to it than she had been told?

  If she wanted reasons she need look no further than the manner of this marriage. It was natural for her to feel resentment at the arrangement of it.

  Serena, watching her fingers pleat the hem of the sheet, said, “What you did, no matter the reasons, has had the effect of giving my son a name, one he can be proud of. For that much I do thank you.”

  He made a quick gesture of negation. “I gave you something, too. Do you remember?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “There’s no reason you should, if you don’t remember the ceremony.” His smile was wry, without bitterness. Straightening, he slipped his hand into his pocket, bringing out a small box covered with ruby velvet. With easy steps he approached the bed and, seating himself on the edge, snapped open the box.

  Resting on the bed of white satin was an enormous sapphire in an octagon shape surrounded by flawless diamonds. It gleamed with blue fire in the fading light, a matchless jewel set in softly shining gold.

  “It’s lovely,” Serena breathed.

  “I thought it suited you.” Nathan plucked the ring from the box, and picking up her hand, slid its cool weight onto the third finger of her left hand.

  “Oh, Nathan, I can’t accept anything like this,” Serena objected, trying to pull her fingers from his grasp.

  He would not let her go. “You already have. I am only returning your property. I gave you this ring when we exchanged vows; something I bought some time ago on the off chance that an occasion like this might arise. The only reason I was carrying it around with me was that you have lost so much weight in the last week that you were in danger of losing it. Mrs. Anson found it in the sheets and gave it back to me for safekeeping.”

  “That doesn’t change anything,” Serena began, only to be stopped by coughing once again.

  Nathan got to his feet. “I shouldn’t have kept you talking so long. I had better go and let you rest. I hope that in a few days you will be fit enough for me to have dinner with you in here.”

  Serena managed a smile and a nod. As he turned away, she levered herself to one elbow. “Nathan, wait.”

  “Yes, Serena?” He stopped in the center of the Aubusson rug, turning back.

  “My belongings at the Eldorado — Pearlie said I could send for them, only she — she said she would burn them after two days. Could you — send someone to see if there is anything left?”

  “I’ll go myself.”

  “No, really, if you’ll just send a message?”

  “I would rather go,” he said, his face stern.

  Serena
subsided, easing back on her pillow. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” she said hoarsely. Then, touched by a vague memory, she added, “I — I hope I haven’t kept you from your room?”

  “Not at all. This was my wife’s room, or perhaps I should say my first wife’s.” With a brief smile that creased the sides of his thin face, he let himself out the door.

  Serena lay still, staring at the recessed panel. Mrs. Nathan Benedict. There was a ring of unreality to the words. It couldn’t be, and yet it was. She let her gaze drop to the ring she was wearing, a rich symbol of a mystic and binding union. It meant the end of her worries, the answer to her prayers. Why, then, wasn’t she happier? Married. The wife of Nathan Benedict. And what had happened, she asked herself with deliberate care, to his mistress?

  The answer to her question was not immediately forthcoming. Nathan came to see her often, but did not stay long, and it was almost as though he deliberately kept the conversation on an impersonal level. He was meticulous about asking after her health. They discussed Sean, the pounds he had gained, and whether he smiled for them or from gas pains.

  He brought to her all that was left of her belongings, her bits of jewelry, a handful of books, the pistol in its mahogany case he had given her. The rest had been thrown into the fire, including her mother’s ivory ball gown and the gilt-heeled slippers. No, he said, his hazel eyes hard, he had encountered no difficulty in getting the items from Pearlie.

  As he began to relax in her company, he became more expansive, talking, Serena thought, to keep her from having to strain toward conversation. He spoke of occurrences in the town and, sometimes, problems in the mines. There was labor unrest as the miners belonging to the Western Federation of Miners, fresh from their victory the year before, when they had won the eight-hour-shift day at no cut in their pay of three dollars a day, were agitating for special concessions, an old-age pension, and child-labor laws. Accidents were frequent, sometimes with the dynamite charges used to blast the granite rock into small enough pieces to be removed, sometimes with the stopers, the six-foot-long, steam-powered jack hammers called “widow makers” used to gouge the gold-bearing ore from its bed; and sometimes from sheer exuberant or drunken carelessness. Problems arose with the gold veins. They played out with unsettling capriciousness and had to be sought out with careful blasting, though they often were never found again. But one of the most troubling phenomena was water in the mine tunnels. It was a situation the mine owners were going to have to face together sometime. Miners could not work while standing up to their necks in water. There was talk of digging a drainage tunnel, but so far nothing had come of it.

  Nathan himself, when pressed, admitted that he was in favor of better conditions for the miners. His mines had not been among those which were a target of the union during the strike, since he had already instigated the eight-hour day and refused to return to the nine-hour rate advocated by the other owners. But it was precisely because of the scars left from the labor war, the battles between special deputies hired by the mine owners and the state militia seeking to protect the miners, the polarization of the town of Cripple Creek, which was a populist community with sympathy for the miners, and Colorado Springs, which was elitist and therefore on the side of mine owners who, for the most part, made their homes there, that he felt unable to follow his inclinations. Where before he had dared to be a maverick, feelings were running so high now that it was dangerous to run counter to his “class,” which happened to be the mine owners. It was, basically, the haves against the have-nots, as the miners sought to share in the unusual prosperity of the region.

  “I hate to see the boys who work in the mines,” Serena commented. “They look like little men, old before their time. Their faces are so washed-out and sad, as if they had forgotten how to laugh. I can’t bear to think of Sean having to go into the mines someday, shut away from the sunlight.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” Nathan answered, his tone abrupt. “He’ll never have to ride the hoist unless he wants to do it for the experience.”

  “What are you saying?” Serena stared at him, wondering at the almost-defiant sound of his voice.

  “I mean I have had a will drawn up naming Sean as my heir, along with you, of course.”

  “Nathan, no!”

  “Why not? I have no relatives, none who deserve so much as a penny, though there’s always a new cousin or nephew crawling out of the woodwork. If by some chance I — you and I — should have direct issue, the will can be changed. Even in that event, you need not be concerned. Sean will always share equally with any children we may have.”

  He kept his face averted from her, as if he preferred not to see her reaction to his words. “I don’t know what to say,” Serena told him.

  “There’s no need to say anything. It’s just a sensible precaution, that’s all. There is no obligation.”

  His last words were welcome, despite her recognition that she could not help but be influenced by the magnanimity of his gesture. Did he know that? Was that why they had been spoken, to absolve himself of the accusation? Or was it simply that the obligation only existed in her own mind? She had been given a choice, yes; she could stay with him, or not. Still, it seemed that Nathan, by his quiet actions, his frequent references to the future, was going to leave her no room for an answer other than the one he wished to hear. Compared to Ward, he did not seem a particularly strong or virile personality, but there was a bedrock of unassuming power beneath his calm demeanor. The discovery was more disturbing than she cared to admit.

  Serena grew stronger. She progressed from sitting up in bed to sitting in a chair at the window. From there she watched the low-hanging clouds of the cold mornings frost the trees until they looked like white ghosts of themselves, watched the gray afternoons turn to snowy nights. A cradle was moved in to stand beside the fireplace, and a rocking chair was brought. Serena rocked Sean and put him down to sleep, ringing for Mary only when he showed signs of hunger, and in the late evenings when it was time to make him ready for the night with the nursemaid.

  As Serena’s strength returned, so did her appetite. It was a great pleasure to learn that Nathan’s chef was a Frenchman, trained at Antoine’s in New Orleans, and adept at all the dishes that were her particular favorites. When she mentioned the fact in glowing terms to Nathan, along with a sudden craving for oysters Bienville and seafood gumbo filé, he looked both gratified and thoughtful. Less than a week later he appeared at the head of a procession consisting of Mary, Mrs. Anson’s daughter, Dorcas, Mrs. Anson herself, and the coachman. Standing in the doorway, Nathan respectfully begged permission to place a feast before her.

  A table was brought forward with two tree-of-life chairs. An asbestos pad was placed on the shining table surface to protect it from heat, and onto this was spread a fine cloth of hand-embroidered white-on-white Irish linen, rolled from off a pole where it had been stored to prevent creases. Fine napkins were folded with the monogram uppermost; china dinner plates, fishplates, bread-and-butter plates, dessert plates, soup bowls, and finger bowls were laid, followed by crystal salts, each with its own tiny spoon. Waterford crystal water glasses and three different sizes of wine glasses were set in their correct places. A silver candelabra was placed between the plates. Water was poured into the finger bowls and a slice of lemon and sprig of ivy floated upon it. That done, everyone withdrew, except the housekeeper who helped Serena into her borrowed dressing gown, then lit the candles in the silver holder. While Nathan seated Serena, the woman wheeled in a cart on which sat the first course under a domed silver cover.

  “Oysters Bienville!” Serena exclaimed as the dish, steaming hot and deliciously fragrant, was set before her. “How in the world did you manage to find such a thing, and at this time of year?”

  He waited until they both had been served. Picking up his small, three-pronged fork, he gave a slow smile. “They are shipped in by special train. You can have anything if you have money — and if you want it badly enough.”


  Serena stared at him a moment, her awareness caught by a shadow in his eyes. “There are those who would dispute that,” she suggested.

  “They don’t, usually, have money.”

  The shadow was gone and his expression was droll. Serena smiled and turned her attention to the food.

  The oysters were removed by gumbo filé as a soup course. With it went crusty French bread served with butter in small round pats with a fleur-de-lis design pressed into the top. This was followed by tender grillades of beef in a dark, rich sauce with side dishes of broccoli au gratin, wild rice, and brown sugar-coated yams. With the seafood dishes there was a crisp white wine, with the main course a rich red. Finally, as the almond tarts and cream were placed upon their dessert plates, a mint-green liqueur was poured.

  Though she could not do justice to so much food, Serena was lavish with her praise. She was touched by the trouble Nathan had gone to on her behalf, if not the expense. She felt a warm friendliness toward him that might or might not have been intensified by the wine. There was also between them a gentle intimacy made up of the soft candlelight, the hissing and popping of the fire beside them, the gleam of silver and crystal, the sharing of the excellent meal. It seemed to deepen as the housekeeper, her last duty performed with the pouring of the liqueur, went out, closing the door behind her. Nathan’s next words served to underline the impression.

  “I will be glad,” he said, his gaze on the rather drab dressing gown Serena wore, “when next week comes.”

  “Why, I wonder?”

  “Because it will be Christmas, and I will have an excuse to give you a robe and sundry other items so you won’t have to keep wearing my housekeeper’s things. They are well enough in their way, but they don’t suit you.”