It didn’t seem to make much impression on the man. “Best we lock up then, ma’am.”
“Indeed.” She handed the dipper back and set about putting on her gloves. The thought of loading her tired, sweat-soaked body with more cloth did not appeal, but a lady did not go outside without gloves, even in this benighted portion of the world. “If you would be so kind as to return that to the well, sir, I shall accomplish the rest.”
His footsteps were very definite against the raw flooring, and Cat closed her eyes again for a moment. The problem that had been nipping and gnawing at her all day, even while she sought to retain some decorum and control in the face of what was apparently the Lost Tribe of Almanache, returned.
The locket. How on earth am I going to…
It was quite simple. She merely had to find a way to enter the pawnshop unremarked.
Or, she merely had to not care what people would think if they saw her entering such a place. It was not as if she had a Reputation to maintain, here at the end of the world. But still.
“Ma’am?” D—n the man. Would he grant her no relief from his presence?
“Very well,” Cat said, as if he had sought to argue with her. She gathered her necessaries and swept down the central aisle, chin held high and her mother’s Greet The Peasants smile frozen onto her features. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 9
He began to get the idea the marm didn’t like him.
Oh, she was perfectly polite. It was Mr. Gabriel this and Sir that and Sheriff the other. But a woman had a hundred little ways to let a man know he was not welcome, and the damn Boston miss had a hundred and one. There was freezing him with a single glance when he showed up at the kitchen door, and Li Ang’s sly little smile. Not to mention Miss Barrowe shooing him out of the damn building the second day of school. Nevermind that she obviously had precious little in the way of experience for keeping the little ’uns from mischief; she was bound and determined to do things according to her own fancy. She didn’t even ask him about the gate in front of her house, just engaged Carter, that damnfool, to repaint it and take care of a squeak in the hinges.
It was a perfectly good gate. He’d hung it himself.
After two weeks of being snubbed by the miss, as well as riding the circuit not just before dawn and after dusk but at high noon in the heat, his temper was none too smooth. He just grunted when Russ Overton asked him if it was really necessary to ride the circuit when the chartermage could simply feel the charter was intact, and there hadn’t been another irruption since.
The card games above the Lucky Star were no good, either. For the life of him, Gabe could not stop losing, and that was enough to make him wish he had never seen this town. Dr. Howard had even asked him, with a sly chuckle, if he needed a charming to repair his luck.
The old coot.
So when the woman came sashaying into the jail early Sunday morn, he was already in a bad mood. It didn’t help that it was Mercy Tiergale, tarted up in what might’ve been her Sunday best sprigged muslin.
That is, if a whore ever went to church. On the other hand, there wasn’t much of a preacher in Damnation. Maybe the Boston miss was scandalized by the lack of a man of God around here. Some of the men read from the Book, some of the women organized hymns, and that was about it. Letitia Granger often professed herself absolutely horrified and trumpeted her intention to bring a holy man from a city somewhere.
He wished her luck. As long as it wasn’t a Papist who might recognize what Jack was—what he had been.
If it is, I’ll just move on. Gabe reached to touch his hatbrim, but the hat was on the peg by the door. His boots were caked with Damnation’s yellow dust, but he had them propped on the desk anyway. There were two jail cells; one held a snoring drunk—Rob Gaiterling, who needed a bender about once a month and went crazy when he got it—and the other stood open and empty, its walls scratched with unfinished charter-symbols and finished graffiti, the iron of the doors glowing dully with imbued mancy. “Miz Tiergale.”
Daylight showed the beginning of ravages to her sweet round face, but her chin was high and her dark hair was elaborately curled under an imitation of a fashionable bonnet. He’d been seeing them more and more about town this last week, maybe in response to the schoolmarm.
An inward wince. Maybe there was a charm to get the image of Miss Barrowe, terrified and pale, breaking her pretty parasol over a walking corpse’s head, out of his brain. If one didn’t exist, maybe he should make one. He could turn in some more hours laboring over Russ’s charter-dictionaries; unfortunately, whatever black mancy Salt had been working, there was nothing in Russ’s small collection that could shed light on it.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Mercy’s shoulders were rigid, her hands clasped together as if she was six again, repeating her charter-chism. “I have business.”
No doubt. “Yes ma’am?” Was Tilson beating his girls again? Or was there a deeper trouble to add to the mess inside Gabe’s head?
He might almost welcome some more trouble, if only to keep him occupied and away from brooding over a silly nose-high Boston miss.
“I aim to visit the schoolmarm before the churching.” Mercy took a deep breath, and high color flushed her round cheeks. She was popular among the Lucky Star’s patrons, most of whom liked a woman with a little heft. “I aim to have you go with me, to keep it all respectable-like. None of the gossipies in town are like to go, and I aim to have the marm listen to what I have to say.”
That’s a lot of aimin’ you’re fixed on. “She seems the listenin’ type.” Gabe got his feet under him. “What kind of business, if I may inquire?”
“Personal business, Sheriff.” Mercy nodded once, sharply, and that was that. “Not saloon business.”
In other words, Tilson didn’t need to know. Gabe thought it over. Well, what could it hurt? Besides, there was his curiosity, which had perked its ears something awful. “Yes ma’am.”
The saloon girl’s face eased, and her earrings—bits of paste glass, with tiny charms flashing in their depths, probably to keep the dye in her hair—danced. Her eyebrows were coppery, and there was a fading set of bruises ringing her neck. She’d curled some of her hair over to hide them, but there was no hiding some things. “Much obliged, Sheriff. If you want…”
There were times when he was mighty tempted, true. “No ma’am, thank you ma’am,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. The saloon girl’s face brightened with an honest smile, and Gabe dropped his gaze as he stepped past her to rescue his hat.
Women. How could a man ever figure? He’d visited one or two of the Star’s girls, when it got to be too much. They were uncomplicated. They didn’t twist a man up inside.
And they were welcoming, too. What more did a man need?
His mood had just turned a little blacker, and Gabe scowled. He offered the girl his arm as they stepped outside, and at least she accepted.
* * *
Mercy was silent the entire way, her steps light and delicate. They kept to the back row running parallel to the main street, their only witnesses some chickens and stray dogs, as well as wet washing flapping on lines, crackling with dust-shake charms. And they reached Miss Barrowe’s trim little cottage just as the marm herself, smartly dressed in a soft peach frock that made her glow in the morning sunshine, stepped out her front door with yet another parasol, this one bearing a ruff of soft scalloped lace.
She was obviously bound for church.
His throat tightened. His face was a mask. The gate didn’t squeak, but the painting on it was a little slapdash.
Served her right.
Miss Barrowe didn’t seem surprised in the least. “Sheriff. How pleasant. Are you attending church today?”
He had to clear his windpipe before he could say “No ma’am,” with anything resembling his usual tone. “Miss Barrowe, may I present Miss Mercy Tiergale? She’s some words for you.”
“I see. How do you do?” And the marm, pretty as you please, offered her han
d with a smile that, for some reason, made Gabe’s chest even tighter.
“Ma’am.” Mercy was back to flour-pale, and she shook the marm’s hand once, limply. A tense silence rose, dust whisking along the street on a brisk fresh breeze. It would be hot later. Finally, Mercy swallowed visibly. “How do.”
Miss Barrowe glanced quickly at Gabe, her expression unreadable. “Where are my manners? Do come in. May I offer you some tea? I know Mr. Gabriel prefers coffee—”
“No ma’am.” Mercy’s fingers tightened on his arm. A spate of words came out in a rush, like a flash flood up in the hills. “I aim to have you listen. We—some of the girls and me—we wants our letters. I mean, we want to do some larnin’. Book larnin’, and figures.” The saloon girl freed one hand, digging in her skirt pocket. “We can pay you. We want it all respectable-like.” A handful of rolled-together bills came up, and Gabe noticed a stain on Mercy’s gloved wrist. Looked like whiskey.
Maybe she’d needed it to brace her. He kept his mouth shut, and winced again when he thought of Tils’s likely reaction to this. And the money—often, saloon girls didn’t see actual cash. More of Mercy’s nervousness seemed downright reasonable, now.
Miss Barrowe did not even bat one sweet little eyelash. “I see. Please, Miss Tiergale, put that away and come inside. As I am engaged to teach in this town and my salary is paid by the town itself, I see no need for you to—”
“We’re saloon girls, ma’am.” Flung like a challenge. “Six of us. In the afternoons before the real drinkin’ starts, that’s when we have time.”
Miss Barrowe nodded briskly. “Then after I finish with my other pupils, I shall be glad to help you and your fellow…ladies educate yourselves. Are you quite certain you won’t come in and have some tea while we discuss this?”
“No ma’am.” Mercy’s arm came up, rigid, and she proffered the bills. “Wouldn’t want you to miss church. Do you take our money, and I’ll be on my way.”
Miss Barrowe’s glance flickered to Gabe’s face again. Her curls were expertly arranged, and that dress looked soft enough for angels to nest in. A faint breath of rosewater reached him, under the tang of cigar smoke and spilled drink, sawdust and sweat from Mercy. He was suddenly very aware that Mercy had his arm, and that Miss Barrowe might draw a conclusion or two from that.
I don’t care. But it had a hollow ring, and it was maybe the wrong time for Jack Gabriel to start lying to himself.
“I believe it might be best for Sheriff Gabriel to hold your money.” Miss Barrowe straightened slightly, her shoulders going back. A touch of lace around the neckline of her dress was incredibly distracting; he found he couldn’t look away. “You shall engage my services as a teacher for a certain length of time—a month, perhaps? Then we shall again address the question of payment, if you are satisfied with my methods and your progress.” A slight curve of her lips. “That would make every aspect of this eminently respectable, since Mr. Gabriel is a representative of the town that engaged me.”
Well, now. “Seems a right fair idea,” he offered, but neither woman appeared to pay much heed. Mercy’s lips moved slightly as she worked this around in her head, and Miss Barrowe held the saloon girl’s gaze. Invisible woman-signals flashed between them like charmgraph dots and dashes, and finally Mercy relaxed a trifle.
“I b’lieve that’ll do.” She let loose of Gabe’s arm long enough to roll the wad of bills more tightly, and offered it to him. “Will you hold this, Gabe?”
“Be right pleased to,” he mumbled. Why were his cheeks hot?
“Very well.” Miss Barrowe closed her front door with a small, definite snick. “Are you accompanying me to church, Miss Tiergale?”
“No ma’am.” Mercy stared at the ground now, Miss Barrowe’s dainty boots clicking on the steps as she picked her way down to the garden path. The marm opened her parasol with an expert flicker and flutter, and—surprisingly enough—offered her own arm to the saloon girl. “It ain’t proper. Leastways—”
“That,” the schoolmarm said decisively, “is a great shame. Would you care to walk with me at least as far as the Lucky Star? I believe it is upon my route.”
Mercy almost flinched. “No ma’am. There’d just be trouble if…well.”
“Don’t you worry.” Gabe’s cheeks would not cool down. He had the attention of both women, now, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d spoken up. “Tils gives you trouble, you come right on over to me.”
Mercy actually laughed, cupping one gloved hand over her mouth. There was, however, little of merriment in the sound. She knew as well as he did that he couldn’t settle down in the Star and stare Tils into keeping his temper permanently. “Mighty kind of you, Gabe. I’d best be on my way. Thank you, ma’am. When are we fixing to start?”
“Tomorrow is Monday.” Miss Barrowe now looked faintly perplexed, a small line between her eyebrows. “If that suits you, and the other ladies.”
“Suits us fine, ma’am. Mornin’.” And with that, Mercy Tiergale turned on one worn-down bootheel and strode off, her skirt snapping a bit as the morning breeze freshened.
He searched for something to say. The parasol had dipped, so Miss Barrowe’s face was shadowed. He doubted her expression would be anything but polite and cool. “Right kind of you, ma’am.”
She was silent for a long moment. He could have kicked himself. Should have followed Mercy and not given the miss a chance to snub him.
“Is there likely to be trouble arising from this, Mr. Gabriel?” The lacy stuff shivered as she adjusted her parasol, and the honest worry in her clear dark eyes pinched at him.
Just why, though, he couldn’t say.
“Not if I can help it.” His jaw set. “You just settle your mind, Miss Barrowe.”
“I don’t mean for me,” she persisted. “For Miss Tiergale. She seemed…concerned.”
“I said to settle your mind.” He half-turned, offered his arm without much hope. “Walk you to church, ma’am?”
Her gloved hand stole forward, crept into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there. “Does that mean I shouldn’t worry for Miss Tiergale, as you will assist her and her…compatriots?”
“It means I can handle one whorehouse manager, ma’am.” As soon as it left his lips he regretted himself. “Beg pardon.”
Her lips had pressed together. Her free hand hovered near her mouth, but her eyes were wide and sparkling. She composed herself, and her smile was almost as bright as Damnation’s morning sun as she turned slightly, her skirt brushing his knee as she leaned ever so slightly on him. “Indeed. I have faith in your ability, sir. Forgive my repeating myself, but will you be attending church today?”
He thought of saying he had pressing business, but it seemed all good sense had deserted him. The pressure of her fingers inside his elbow was a popcharm, jolting up all the way to his shoulder. “Yes ma’am.”
Oh, Hell.
Chapter 10
Cat rubbed delicately at the skin about her eyes. It was drowsy-hot, especially in the schoolroom, and the scratching on the board was enough to set even a saint’s teeth on edge. Cecily Dalrymple was writing out I will not throw ink, her fair blonde face set in mutinous agony. The rest of the children, temporarily chastened, bent over their slates, and Cat took a deep breath. “Once more,” she said, patiently, and little Patrick Gibbons almost stuttered as he recited.
“A…B…C…”
“Very good,” she encouraged, ignoring the fidgets. The youngest students chorused with Patrick, raggedly but enthusiastically. They made their way through the alphabet, and Cat’s warm glow of entirely justified (in her opinion) satisfaction was marred only by the back row’s restlessness.
Miss Bowdler’s books were very useful, but Cat had learned more applicable skills following her mother about on the endless round of charity work a Barrowe-Browne was obliged to undertake. Not to mention the example of one of her governesses—a certain Miss Ayre, quiet and plain but with a steely tone that had made even Robbie sit u
p and take notice on those few occasions her patience had worn thin.
It was Miss Ayre’s example she found herself drawing on most frequently, especially as every child in the schoolroom was dismally untaught. Ignorance and undirected energy conspired to make them fractious, but they were on the whole more than willing to work, and work hard, once she gave them a direction. Perhaps it was the novelty of her presence.
Still, there were troubles. The Dalrymple girls, for one. Turning those two hoydens into respectable damsels was perhaps beyond Cat’s power, but she had an inkling of a plan. The older girl’s longing glances at the sad, shrouded pianoforte had not passed unnoticed, and Cat suspected that with the offer of lessons she would have a valuable carrot to dangle before the haughty creature.
“That is quite enough,” she said sternly. Mancy sparked on her fingers, and there was a crackle. Little Tommy Beaufort let out a garbled sound and thumped back into his seat. “Mr. Beaufort, since you are so eager, stand and recite your alphabet instead of tossing rubbish at your classmates. Begin.”
“A…B…C…”
Hoofbeats outside. That explained the restlessness of the back rows—they had heard the noise before she did. Was it Mr. Gabriel again? Whoever it was seemed in quite a hurry, but she held Tommy to his recitation, nodding slightly.
The horse did not pass the schoolhouse. Who could that be? But she stayed where she was, standing beside her desk, and when Tommy finished she gave him a tight smile. “Very good. Now, first form, take your slates out and begin copying from the top line on the board—A fox is quick. Second form—”
Thundering bootsteps, and the door was flung open. Cat blinked.
It was Mr. Tilson, the owner of the Lucky Star. She had seen him in church just yesterday, nodding along to Mr. Vancey the cartwright’s stumbling reading of the Book. Mr. Gabriel had sat next to her, his hands on his knees and his face as dull and unresponsive as she had ever seen it.
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