by Renee Rose
A bitterness welled up in him, then. An old, familiar bitterness. It tasted of love and loss.
And it had nothing to do with anything.
Chapter Seven
“Why don't you see if Daddy Diggs will pay you to play his piano?” Marie suggested.
It was afternoon and Cora had been practicing, trying to learn more of the can-can song. They'd continued playing it as a duet, but it was the only time Jake sat down at the piano and it seemed to make him even more miserable, as if it put his diminished capacity on display for all to see. Or perhaps it was more personal than that. Maybe it was too painful to play, knowing he might never again perform with both hands. He'd refused to give her any further lessons, though he had scratched the music to several songs for her to learn on her own.
Marie's suggestion was obvious—she wanted her off the floor and away from any customers she might draw. The truth was, Cora preferred the piano to whoring, but she wasn't going to give Marie the satisfaction of admitting so. Instead, she ignored her and turned back to the notes Jake had clumsily drawn on the page with his left hand. She stayed and practiced until it was time to get dressed for the evening shift.
In the bunk room, the five of them dressed and primped, pulling on their black stockings and lacing up their corsets.
“Just blow jobs for me tonight, I'm on the rag!” Olive announced.
“Same with me,” said Gigi.
“Me too,” sang Margaret.
“Ah, God. That means I'll be getting mine by tomorrow,” Marie complained.
“I guess that leaves you and Cora for first on the floor tonight,” Olive said brightly.
“When do you get yours?” Marie queried suspiciously, as if Cora had purposely scheduled her monthly courses so she could take business from the rest of them.
“Next week, I guess.”
“That is not fair, is it?” Marie demanded to the rest of them.
Olive snorted, giving Marie a “smarten up” look.
“She'll be on our schedule by next month. It's a given when women live together,” Gigi said nonchalantly.
“Where's the lip paint?” Cora asked to change the subject. It normally remained on the shelf by the looking glass where they primped.
“I put it away with my things. It is mine, did you not know that?” Marie asked.
“Oh,” Cora said stupidly, knowing that Marie was hassling her, but not knowing what to do about it.
“Oh, let her use it, Marie. There's no need to be like that,” Olive snapped.
“It's all right, I don't need it.”
“Yes, you do. It's part of the costume,” Olive said with authority. “Marie, get it for her.”
“It is in my trunk over there,” Marie pointed, without even looking.
Cora sighed and searched the trunk until she found the sequestered lip paint. Yes, Marie had definitely hidden it to give her a hard time. After applying it, she turned to Marie.
“Look, I didn't come here to steal your job. Is that how you feel?”
Marie gave her a sneering look and didn't answer.
“There's enough work for everyone,” Olive said firmly. “There's no competition here.”
“That's right,” Marie said, looking in the mirror and rubbing her lips together. “There's no competition.” Her tone implied that Cora couldn't possibly compete with Her Fabulous Frenchness.
Hackles raised, Cora went downstairs determined to score the first customer. She raised her hand in greeting to Mei, who Diggory had hired as an additional barmaid. Mei had not wanted to return to prostitution, nor did she want to leave the Chinese settlement, but she'd been grateful for the wages Diggory had offered her to work behind the bar.
Sam Stryker walked in and despite the way their past interaction had ended, she had him upstairs in fifteen minutes flat. Eat your stockings, Marie.
* * *
She woke the next morning to the sound of Marie shrieking.
“My money! It is gone! Somebody stole it!”
Scrambling out of bed, she stood in her chemise as a crowd gathered around—everyone asking questions and just gaping at the frantic Frenchwoman, who opened and closed her trunk, digging through her things and then holding her hands up in frustration.
Olive grabbed Cora's arm and pulled her to the side, asking in a low voice, “Did you take it?”
“What? No!”
“Just tell me the truth, and I'll help you. I know you've stolen before.”
“I did not take it!” she insisted, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, her palms clammy. How did Olive know she'd stolen before? She felt her cheeks burning with the shame of that.
“What's going on here?” Diggory demanded, entering the room. The crowd parted for him and he stood, imposingly tall and authoritative.
“My money—all of my money—is gone!” Marie wailed. “It was here, in my trunk.”
Then she turned and gazed directly at Cora. “And she was digging through my things last night.”
Cora took a step back, feeling slightly dizzy. She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Is that true?” Daddy Diggs asked, his dark eyes boring into her.
“Yes—I mean, no—.”
“Everyone saw you. All of us were here. Remember?” Marie demanded of the other girls.
Gigi nodded slowly. Diggory noted it and looked at Margaret, who also reluctantly nodded.
“Yes, because you put your lip paint away and then sent her to look for it,” Olive said with her hands on her hips.
“I did not tell her to steal my money while she was there!”
Diggory's eyes swiveled to her. Cora stumbled back again and hit the wall. She shook her head quickly from side to side. Joaquin edged up next to her, as if to somehow protect her or declare his loyalty.
He turned back to Marie. “How much money was it, Marie?”
“Two hundred dollars,” she said.
“Exactly?” he said.
Did she detect a dubious note to his voice? With a wave of sickness, she realized that Marie might have staged this whole thing to get rid of her. Daddy Diggs had told her that stealing from the staff would get her cast out on her ear. Perhaps it was a known rule. Maybe he'd enforced it before. Olive had known she'd stolen—what if they all had?
But who would he believe?
He'd already caught her in the act once before, a fact which jabbed her conscience on a daily basis—the shame of his disapproval still smoldered.
“No, it was more than two hundred—I don't know, exactly—two hundred something,” Marie said, sounding angry, and perhaps a touch flustered.
Diggory's expression was inscrutable as he studied first Marie's face, then her own. She felt her cheeks flaming with raw emotion, her throat constricting painfully. She still could not seem to speak to defend herself. Her eyes filled with tears under his gaze.
He crossed the room to her bunk, pulling back the covers, then lifting the mattress. There, under the mattress on the wall side of the bed was a large roll of cash.
Hot indignation coursed through her. “That wasn't—I didn't put that there!” she spluttered.
Wordlessly, he tossed it to a triumphant Marie.
“She put that there!” Joaquin spluttered, pointing at Marie, his face red with anger.
“Of course you would defend her!” Marie shot back. “You probably helped her to hide it.”
“Come into my room, Cora,” Diggory said grimly.
“But I—” she protested.
“In my room.”
* * *
Jake followed Cora into the room and shut the door. She turned to him immediately, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I didn't steal her money, I swear to you. I know I've stolen before and it looks bad—really bad—but this time it wasn't me.”
He listened, keeping his face impassive.
Wringing her hands, she paced the length of the room. “Marie's resented me since the day I arrived. She framed me—put her l
ip paint away so I had to go through her trunk in front of everyone while we were dressing.”
She stopped pacing and stared at him across the length of the room, her eyes pleading. He remained still, listening. Discouraged by his lack of response, her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes, bowing her head.
When she looked up, her eyes were bleak and resigned.
“I know you must do what you must do,” she said in a shaky voice. “Punish me. Throw me out. I don't really care—I never planned to stay, anyway. I won't miss it one bit. Except, what I do care about—” Her voice strangled and she made a visible effort to regain control of her emotions. “—is what you must think of me.”
She twisted her fingers in front of her, but raised her eyes bravely to meet his.
“I was so ashamed when you caught me stealing from Stryker. It was something we did at Smoochy's—he taught us how to do it—it was a requirement of the job. But… you made me see that—you made me feel—” She stopped, looking desperately around the room as if she might find the right words somewhere hidden on some shelf.
“I was so sorry to have disappointed you,” she whispered, her lips trembling, fresh tears sliding out the corners of her eyes. “I have come to care,” she swallowed, “about what you think of me. I want to be the person you think I am, or who you expect me to be. And so I'm sorry, more than anything, that you think I would disobey you after—ah—”
“After I'd punished you?” he offered gently, slowly crossing the room toward her trembling form.
“Yes,” she whispered. She shook her head vigorously. “Because I wouldn't. You made me feel like there was still good left in me. You helped me to remember who I am. And so I'm grateful to you for that,” she said, hanging her head in resignation.
He took hold of her shoulders, meaning to offer some form of comfort, but as usual with her, his control immediately slipped away.
God, if she didn't make him remember who he was, as well.
He bent his head and slanted his lips over hers, claiming them aggressively, grasping her face and holding it steady for his onslaught. His lips twisted over hers, tasting the salt of her tears, his tongue pillaging what he realized now he'd always believed belonged to him. The wetness on her cheeks dampened his own, and he wiped it with his thumbs, stroking her fine cheekbones as he deepened his kiss.
When he pulled away, she was breathless, gazing up at him with such confusion and hope that his heart lurched in his chest.
“You believe me?” she asked tremulously.
He nodded. “Aye.”
He drew her into his arms and gazed down into her reddened eyes. “Were you telling me that you care about me?”
She gave a little sob of laughter, her eyes blinking back tears again. “Yes, sir. I was.”
“Let's get out of here, Cora—leave Dorado Hills.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and shining with wonder. “Together?”
He smiled. “Yes, together. Would you have me?”
Another sob bubbled out of her and she flung herself against him, pressing her face to his chest.
“Is that a yes?”
She pulled away and gave him a watery smile. “Yes.”
He smiled and tucked one of her curls behind her ear.
“Where would we go?”
“I don't know. Boston? Chicago?”
“How about Ireland?”
His chest constricted with emotion. To think of returning again—of seeing his beloved countryside, of being whole—not his old self, but a new one, with a new future. One he had not even begun to contemplate, but that involved this perfect companion. To see his family again…
“I don't think my younger brother would be too pleased to have me return and take his title,” he said ruefully, considering the effect of his return.
Cora blinked up at him. “You don't need to take his title. You could abdicate. We have enough with the gold to make a start, don't you think?”
He felt the purity of hope buoying all thoughts about the future. He smiled at her. “It won't go as far as you might think, but if we invested it wisely, perhaps. We could build a cottage on my family's property. You'd love it there—it's so beautiful.”
“Invest it wisely,” Cora repeated softly. “Jake, what do you think happened with all my father's investments?”
He stroked her cheek. “I think there wasn't as much gold out there as everyone thought. He lent money to a lot of operations that went under. I suppose he tried to make it back by borrowing from Smoochy and continuing to invest.” He shrugged. “It was a risky venture and his gamble didn't pay. That doesn't mean he wasn't trying to do the very best for you and your mother.”
She nodded. “Yes, I used to blame him, but I think you're right. Jake?” She looked grave. “One more thing.”
“Aye?”
“I'm not Eliza.”
He cupped her face. “I know, my dear. I know exactly who you are. You're the girl who helped me remember who I am. The one who helped me let go of my past—and Eliza.”
She studied his face intently, as if seeking the truth of those words, so he gave her the full benefit of his gaze, showing her all the warmth and love in his heart. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled.
He bent to kiss her again, trying to keep himself in control. When he pulled away, he said, “Come on, let's go to Preacher Dan right now. I'm going to make an honest woman of you before I nail you to the wall again.”
She looked down at herself—she was still in her chemise. “I'll go put something on,” she said and crossed to the door, and then stopped in front of it, hesitating.
Of course she wouldn't be comfortable going out there. He felt a surge of fierce protectiveness.
“Right. I need to deal with Marie first, don't I?”
* * *
She stepped aside to allow Jake to open the door, the glee of righteous vindication rising up only to strangle her with a realization: he would spank Marie. The idea nauseated her. Not that Marie didn't deserve a good whipping, but somehow, she didn't want to share Jake or his discipline with anyone else. She grasped his arm and tugged him back, releasing it quickly when she saw a slight wince on his face. His gunshot wound had healed remarkably well since Dr. Yee had started treating him, so well that she'd momentarily forgotten his injury.
He stepped back into the room and shut the door again, looking at her expectantly. She swallowed. There was no way to say it without sounding like a fool. “I don't want you to spank her,” she said in a tiny voice, looking at her bare toes on the floor.
She peeked at him to see his eyebrows rise, but thankfully, he appeared to consider her request seriously. “Fair enough,” he said at last. He looked thoughtful, and then he nodded. “I have an idea, but it will wait. I'm going to marry you first.”
He crossed the room to the armoire and pulled out one of his dapper waistcoats, donning it gingerly over his injured shoulder.
“Come,” he said, moving back to the door and holding it open for her. She took a breath and stepped out the door, waiting for the gentle pressure of his hand at her low back to propel her forward to the bunk room. He entered with her.
“Out,” Jake said firmly to the other inhabitants.
There were many curious looks, but the room slowly emptied until only he and Cora were left. He threw open the armoire and looked inside looking through the dresses with a critical eye that made Cora giggle. He threw her a smile and selected a pale blue gown, which he tossed to her. She caught it and donned her corset, stockings, normal petticoats, and finally the gown under his appreciative gaze. She ran to the mirror and pinned her hair up, rubbing her lips together to bring out the pink.
“You look beautiful,” he said, and she glowed at the compliment.
She took his arm, allowing him to escort her downstairs, out of Daddy Diggs’ and down Whiskey Row to the center of town, seeking Preacher Dan, the missionary preacher who had dedicated his life to saving the souls of miners who'd rather g
amble and whore on Sundays than attend any church. There was still no church in Dorado Hills, but Preacher Dan resided as a guest at one of the boarding houses and they found him there.
Preacher Dan pumped Jake's hand with enthusiasm when he told him their purpose. With a hand on his bible, they each swore their vows to each other. Cora could scarcely pay attention, her mind whirling as she assimilated all that had passed.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Preacher Dan declared. “You may kiss your bride.”
Jake drew her to him, and murmured in her ear. “It's too late to change your mind now, sweetheart. You're mine, till death do us part.”
A delicious shiver ran up her spine and she melted into him, offering her lips for his taking. He kissed her once—a chaste kiss—then returned for a longer one, until Preacher Dan cleared his throat loudly several times. Jake smirked as he pulled away. “Thank you, Preacher Dan. I think I'll be taking my wife back home, now. If you'd like to join us, we'll be celebrating down at Daddy Diggs’.”
Preacher Dan muttered half-heartedly about the dangers of gambling and prostitution while Jake chuckled and handed over a ten dollar bill, which shut him up. “Thank you, Diggory,” he chirped, his tone more than genial.
Jake offered his arm. “Ready, Mrs. Diggory?” he asked.
She started at the new title and giggled, grasping his arm. Her mind spun as it sunk in that she had just married the Devil Diggory. Her devil. It felt reckless and wild, and absolutely right.
Jake didn't walk her back to Daddy Diggs’. Instead, he took her for a stroll up into the hills, taking her to a beautiful lookout where he spread his jacket on the ground for her to sit upon. They sat and talked, holding hands and making plans for a future neither one of them had ever imagined they might have.
“I want children,” Jake told her. “Loads of them. Little girls with blond curls like yours.”
Her belly clenched. “I've never missed a period, Jake,” she confessed. “Five years of whoring and I always considered myself blessed to be barren.”
His expression turned serious and he touched her cheek. “I'm sorry.” He looked out over the valley. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “it's more about enjoying the sex than how many years you've had it. Maybe with me it will be different.”
