Jack laughed. “I’ll look forward to it. See you at seven!” He climbed back in the carriage and waved as they reentered the flow of traffic.
“Who was that man?” Genevieve demanded, her delicate nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Samuel Clemens, also known as Mark Twain. Why do you look that way?”
“Why, because he was so very horrid! His hair was too outrageously curly, he looked like he needed a bath, and he had the audacity to wink at me!”
Wyatt leaned back against the leather upholstery and laughed with delight. “Perhaps he just surmised that you needed cheering up, which may well be the case after you learn that you’ll be sharing supper with my good friend Sam in just a few hours....”
Chapter 10
July 7, 1864
Jonathan Wyatt neatly carved the loin of veal a la bechamel, placed aromatic slices on the plates, and handed them, one at a time, to Genevieve Braithwaite, who sat at his right. The glow of candlelight softened the features of the six people at the table, each of whom gazed longingly at the veal and companion dishes of lobster salad, stewed peas a la francaise, braised ham garnished with broad beans, crimped perch and Dutch sauce, and scalloped potatoes. Ambrose Summers sat at the other end of the table, opposite his elder grandson, while Conrad Wyatt and his heart’s desire, Emma Pierce, faced Genevieve and first-time guest Samuel Clemens.
Genevieve usually liked playing hostess in the Wyatt household, but tonight she looked as if she would prefer to be anywhere else. Passing a plate to Clemens, she glanced at his ink-stained fingers and grimaced slightly. He gave her a broad grin in return.
Ambrose, watching the scene with interest, remarked, “I like your style, Mr. Clemens. It is both frank and arousing! Before we were called for supper, you’d begun telling me about the adventures attending your recent move to new rooms. Can I persuade you to delve back into that tale?”
“Well, sir...” Sam glanced over at Wyatt, who smiled encouragingly. “I have a typesetter friend named Steve Gillis who shares lodgings with me. We found new rooms not long ago, but Steve forgot to tell his father that we’d moved. Mr. Gillis hunted up the old landlady, a Frenchwoman, who apparently never liked us much. She didn’t know that he was Steve’s father and launched into a tirade of epic proportions. Said she: ‘They are gone, thank God—and I hope I may never see them again. Do you know, sir’”—Clemens dropped his voice to a confidential, female tone, his features drawing up in distaste to mimic the Frenchwoman’s—“‘they were gamblers and murderers of the very worst description! I never saw such a countenance as the smallest one had on him. Their room was never vacant long enough to be cleaned up, for one of them was always going to bed at dark and getting up at sunrise, while the other went to bed at sunrise and got up at dark. And if the chamberman disturbed them, they would just sit up in bed and level a pistol at him and tell him to get scarce! Oh, I never saw such creatures!’”
Clemens paused for a sip of wine and a bite of lobster salad before continuing, while the others indulged in amused laughter. Genevieve alone compressed her lips disapprovingly.
“Sir,” she inquired icily, “do you really consider this proper conversation for a refined dinner table?”
“Refined?” Samuel repeated, tasting the word experimentally. “Is that what this is?” He gave Wyatt a reproving look. “Why didn’t you warn me, sir? I might not have come!”
A tight smile curved the mouth of his host. “I am certain that Genevieve spoke in jest, didn’t you, darling?” He gave her a brief, flashing glance that extinguished her sulky retort before she could form the words. “I insist that you continue, Mr. Clemens! Did the French landlady have any other complaints beyond your countenance and the hours you kept?”
“A few.” Sam grinned. “I believe that she went on to say, ‘They used to bring loads of beer bottles up at midnight and get drunk and shout and fire off their pistols in the room, and throw their empty bottles out of the window at the Chinamen below. Oh, it was dreadful!’” Seeing that the diminutive Emma Pierce was round-eyed with consternation, Sam gave her a wink before continuing in his falsetto, “‘Those villains kept a nasty foreign sword and any number of revolvers and bowie knives in their room, and I know that small one must have murdered lots of people! But that’s not the worst of it...’” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a disapproving hiss. “‘Women! There were women running to their room, sometimes in broad daylight. They had no respect for God, man, or the devil.’” Clemens grinned suddenly. “The good Frenchwoman summed up with thanks to God for taking us away from her boardinghouse.”
Conrad Wyatt stared in honest confusion, his red hair and side-whiskers contrasting with his pale skin. “That’s a very colorful story, sir, but was it meant as entertainment or truth?”
Laughing, Sam replied, “You raise an interesting point, Mr. Wyatt! What is the use of wearing away a lifetime in building up a good name if it is to be blown away at a breath by a woman who is ignorant of the pleasant little customs that adorn a state of high civilization? “
Jack looked down the table to his grandfather, and the two of them chuckled in amusement. Genevieve, still peeved, glared at Jack.
“Has Mr. Clemens described a way of life that you aspire to, Jonathan? You seem so approving.”
One of his brows flicked upward. “Whatever can you mean, my dear? In truth, I was merely amused by my friend’s talent for exaggeration. I was sorely in need of that laughter.” Jack smiled at Samuel Clemens. “Thank you for joining us tonight. I hope to see a great deal more of you!”
Sam took a bite of raspberry-filled meringue and grinned, eyes a-twinkle. “I am pleased to have been of service, sir!”
From his end of the table, Ambrose Summers sipped port and quietly observed his elder grandson. He was gratified not only to see Jonathan unbend a bit, but also to witness Genevieve Braithwaite’s petulance. These, he felt sure, were her true colors.
* * *
Genevieve paced the study nervously, her exquisite gown of pearl-encrusted blue silk shimmering in the light shed by wall sconces. She had waited most of the evening for the other guests to disperse, and now her wish had been granted. Conrad had left to escort Emma home, then Samuel Clemens had bade them farewell, declaring that it was time to return to his new lodgings and begin fueling a whole new set of “murder and mayhem” rumors. After another hour, the old man had at last surrendered to fatigue and trundled off to bed. Now that she and Jonathan were alone, however, Genevieve wasn’t quite certain where to begin.
Wyatt was leaning back against the edge of the Chippendale desk, already coatless, his lean fingers working at the knot of his cravat. The merest flicker of his hooded green eyes betrayed the impatience he felt. The hours spent with Samuel Clemens had reminded him so much of life in Columbia that he no longer had any heart for playing the wealthy San Francisco gentlemen.
“Why don’t you stand still and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?” he said.
Jack’s rather bored tone of voice made her feel foolish. “Well, I... I...” Seeing his brows rise warningly, Genevieve burst out, “I just don’t understand why you had that man in your house tonight! I found him to be shockingly ill-bred, and it surprised me to witness your obvious enjoyment of his—his—performance!”
“I wasn’t aware that I needed to gain your approval of my friends.” His tone was cool. “In any case, you might be reassured to know that Mr. Clemens possesses keen intelligence, rare wit, and a unique and considerable writing talent. I like him for those reasons, and also because he is not pretentious, unlike so many of my so-called friends here in San Francisco.”
“Well, he is certainly unlike any man in the better social circles.”
Wyatt pretended not to understand. “My point exactly.” He offered her a tight-lipped smile—a grim twist of the lips that signaled an end to the conversation. But Genevieve had neither the subtlety nor the inclination to heed that signal.
“I think that you have cha
nged since your latest journey to Nevada,” she continued stubbornly. “I suppose it was inevitable, considering that you were cut off from proper civilization for so long. Next you’ll grow a beard and start wearing red flannel shirts and those hideous thick blue trousers and—”
“Genevieve, it is getting late and I have a crowded schedule tomorrow. If we have nothing else to discuss, I’ll have a carriage brought around to take you home—”
“Wait!” She bridged the distance between them in an instant, reaching for his hands. “I missed you so, darling,” she murmured seductively. “Have you not longed to... be alone with me?”
Jack’s face and body grew taut. He gazed into Genevieve’s beautiful eyes, searching his mind for an appropriate response. Her hands, slim, soft, and white, slid caressingly up his waistcoat to round his shoulders and gently stroke the back of his neck. “I seem to recall a conversation that we had several times before I left in the spring. You told me that it would be improper for us to be alone together, did you not? You were quite adamant about avoiding any situation that might compromise your reputation or your chastity.”
“That was a long time ago,” she objected weakly. Seeing the way his mouth quirked in surprised amusement, she almost added that she had said those things when he had desired her, when his passion had been undeniable. Hadn’t her mother assured her that Jonathan Wyatt was the sort of man who would value his bride’s purity, and that his own carnal desires would drive him to propose marriage? Genevieve knew that she was as beautiful as ever. She had eaten like a bird for weeks and now possessed an eighteen-inch waist to set off her high bosom. What had happened to that desire?
“A long time ago?” Jack repeated, his tone dry. “It was May, I believe.”
Genevieve leaned against Jack’s chest, lowering her lashes demurely. “Sometimes womanhood comes over one suddenly. While you were away, I... grew up. I had time to think about my feelings for you, and yours for me. I missed you, Jonathan. I longed for your embrace, for your... touch, as never before.” Her right hand trailed over the soft white fabric of his shirt, caressing the lean muscles of his arm.
Jack accepted her words and the touch of her fingers... and remained unmoved. For some reason, Genevieve no longer excited him. Her fragrant hair was as soft and pale as cornsilk against his cheek, and the curves of her breasts were lightly grazing his chest, but he felt nothing. Now, as she offered him her parted lips in silent invitation, he kissed her experimentally. Their mouths met while his arms slipped around her supple back. She was moaning softly, her fingers in his hair, her eager body arching through her petticoats in search of a response.
Jack’s own body felt surprisingly detached, while his mind traveled back to the bluff above the Stanislaus River where he had lain in the tall grass with Katie MacKenzie in his arms. Every nerve in his being had sung that day, every vein surging with fire. He had feasted on her delicious mouth and now remembered with a pang how their hearts had pounded in unison as he lay against her.
“Jonathan... is something wrong?” Genevieve had leaned back to look at him, staring into his distant eyes. “Don’t you want me anymore?”
He blinked, focusing on the exquisite creature in his arms. Remembering his vow that morning to concentrate on the reality of his life in San Francisco rather than the masquerade in Columbia, Jack mustered a smile. “Of course I want you, Gen, but I must be more tired than I realize. The trip home was arduous, to say the least, and it’s been taxing to catch up on everything here at home and at the newspaper. I just need a little time to settle in again, I think.”
When he touched a tanned forefinger to her cheek, Genevieve reached up to catch his hand and kiss it. “Your skin is so rough!” Her eyes searched Jack’s face, and she added, “And you’re so brown... It’s as if you’re not quite the same man who left here in May. Have you really changed?”
“Undoubtedly. But there’s no cause for concern.” He gave her a wry smile. “As I said, I just need a little time.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes.” Jack pried her arms from his neck and held her slightly away. “Don’t press me, all right?”
Before she could answer, there was a knock at the study door. Genevieve stepped back just as Conrad Wyatt poked his head into the room.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” He reddened. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I wasn’t aware that you were still here, Miss Braithwaite.”
“It’s all right, Conrad. Genevieve was just leaving. Let me see her into a carriage, then I’ll be back.”
Silently, Jack blessed his brother for the timely interruption. He was even spared a lengthy parting conversation from Genevieve because he had to return to the library. After the most circumspect of kisses in the presence of the coachman, Jack promised to see her soon, then waved once as the carriage rolled off down Montgomery Street.
Conrad was waiting for him in the doorway. Taller and leaner than Jack, he still looked and moved much like a boy, and his expression was one of youthful exuberance. “You look relieved, Jack. And here I was worrying that I’d ruined your expectations for the rest of the night!”
Wyatt snorted derisively and threw himself onto a wing chair facing the cold fireplace. “Women!” He smiled and cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother. “They’re a complicated business, my boy, so beware!”
Awkwardly Conrad took the matching chair, folding and unfolding his long legs. “You must be joking... Yes, I can see that gleam in your eye. Either that or you’re mad. There’s not a male above eighteen in all of San Francisco who wouldn’t give a fortune in gold to be alone with Genevieve Braithwaite. I’ll wager that she’s the sweetest, most beautiful woman in all of California!”
“Ah, youthful fervor!” Jack laughed softly. “Just remember that love is blind—and passion can be life-threatening. If you have to give up a fortune in gold or anything else of great value to win a woman, you’re in grave danger, my boy.”
“I never thought I’d say this about you, Jack, but I think you’re becoming stodgy.”
Jack laughed again, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. Then he said, “How have you fared in life and love during my absence, Con? Any news? Are you still courting Miss Pierce?”
“Nothing of any real importance has taken place. Work at the bank is progressing well. Mr. Braithwaite has spoken of a promotion.”
“Good!” He flashed him an approving grin. Conrad had tried working at the Morning Star but had no talent for either editing or reporting. It had taken all of Wyatt’s considerable tact to persuade his younger brother to seek employment elsewhere.
Conrad shrugged. “I suppose. It’s rather boring there. And I’m growing rather bored with Emma as well. I long for excitement! Which reminds me—I stopped by Barry and Patten’s Saloon after I saw Emma home and heard some rather provocative news. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Well, don’t fall silent now. Pray enlighten me.”
“There were two miners at the faro table, just arrived from Columbia. They said that Harold Van Hosten was killed by that highwayman who calls himself the Griffin.”
“Really?” Glancing down, Jack flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his fawn trousers.
“Really!” Conrad sat forward, his voice rising. “I wish I knew who the Griffin was so I could thank him myself. You can’t imagine the ill will I have borne toward Rush and Van Hosten for cheating me out of my claim, or the frustration I have suffered since heeding your advice not to seek vengeance against them.”
“Perhaps now you’ll be able to put that unhappy chapter behind you,” Jack suggested.
“Well, I might if it weren’t for Aaron Rush. The miners said that he was away when the shooting occurred, but he returned two days later and the town has literally been quaking with his fury. He’s vowed to find the Griffin and bring him to justice, and is offering a huge reward for his capture.”
“Indeed?” Wyatt’s brows flicked upward. “Well, I wish him luck. Fro
m all I’ve heard, the people of Columbia are grateful to the Griffin for all he’s done. It’s doubtful that any of those citizens will turn him in.”
Conrad sank back on his chair. “The miners said that the Griffin disappeared without a trace after Van Hosten’s shooting, and he hasn’t been heard from since. The thing is, people fear that Rush is going to resort to even more disreputable and punitive dealings with the miners, partly out of anger and partly out of a desire to draw the Griffin out of hiding. The townspeople scarcely know what to think or hope for.”
“I imagine this will all blow over in time.”
“Perhaps.” The younger man sighed and ran a hand through his curly red hair. “One can’t help hoping that the Griffin will return to finish Rush off and put an end to that evil once and for all.”
“Don’t count on that, Con. From all I’ve heard, the Griffin isn’t one to resort to violence. My guess is that Van Hosten’s death was probably some sort of accident, and I’d further venture to predict that the Griffin will be lying low for a long time... if not forever.” Jack’s tone was grim.
“Oh, God!” Conrad exclaimed dramatically, slumping on his chair. “What a depressing thought! What’s become of courage and honor?”
Wyatt stared into the dark fireplace. “Perhaps there’s more at stake for the Griffin. He’s not some character in a fairy tale. The man’s a human being.”
Chapter 11
Columbia, California
September 11, 1864
Lim Sung walked slowly up Main Street toward the MacKenzie Saloon. It had rained the night before, and the cool morning air was fragrant with pine. Even Columbia’s usual clouds of dust were dampened, a welcome change after the summer’s unremitting dry heat. A quartet of miners passed en route to the Wells Fargo office, while the stagecoach rumbled into view at the north end of town.
Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1) Page 11
