“You bought me a locket?” He took the chain and dangled the heavy gold necklace.
“I didn’t buy it. Look inside.”
He rested the locket on his knee and worked the catch. The lid flipped open. He stared at the photograph inside.
“It’s your mother.”
He jolted, then shot his gaze to Carina. “Where did you get it?”
“Mrs. DeMornay. She was forbidden to see you, but she risked bringing it to me. She wanted you to have it . . . with her love.”
Quillan’s hand started to shake. He pressed the back of it to his knee. “I don’t understand.” Why would the woman give him a picture of his mother when she wouldn’t even admit they were related, wouldn’t say a word of acknowledgment when her husband denied the possibility, then sent her . . . love? Fury wrapped his heart like a boa constrictor, tightening until there was pain in his chest.
Carina’s words rushed on. “The locket was hers. She gave it to you, her grandson. She said you have your mother’s mouth.”
So she believed him, but wouldn’t tell him to his face. Throat tightening, he looked at the photograph. Even allowing for fuzziness in the image, his mother was lovely. And he knew her. Again his infantile mind had captured something and gave it back to him now as memory. He said, “Her eyes were blue. No, green. Something in between, very bright.”
Carina smiled.
“And I remember her hair, the feel of it. Like yours.” He looked across at his wife. “How can I remember that?”
“It’s a gift.”
Holding his mother’s face in his palm, he searched his mind. “I wish there were more.”
“But you have more than you might. You have her picture, and some memory. And your grandmother knows you.”
“My grandfather doesn’t.” Fury flared afresh.
“Mrs. DeMornay said he has to believe Rose died. He deceives himself. Maybe he doesn’t know the truth. Or it hurts too much. Maybe it isn’t judgment but pain that traps him.”
Carina was naïve if she believed that. A man like William DeMornay didn’t delude himself. But he might easily delude others. Quillan closed the locket. “When did she give you this?”
“This morning.”
“You didn’t tell me?” How could Carina keep something like that silent? He hadn’t thought she could hide anything, yet he’d had no idea.
Carina waved a hand. “She risked too much bringing it. If you got angry, confronted William DeMornay . . .”
His hand clenched around the locket. He might have done so. Just as he had confronted his foster father, he might have forced DeMornay’s hand. “So you reined me in.”
She shrugged one shoulder, a girlish gesture that softened his mood. He slid the locket into his coat pocket and sat back in silence.
At last Carina spoke. “Are you angry?”
He shook his head. “No.” He could be—with Carina for withholding, his grandmother for conniving, his grandfather for outright rejection—but right now he sensed his mother. Anger would get in the way. He didn’t want to lose the feel of her.
Carina sighed. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“I’m not angry.”
She waved her hand. “I should have told you.”
“Carina.” He met her eyes. “Could we not talk right now?”
Her hand dropped to her lap. “You are angry.”
He dropped his head back. “I just don’t want to talk. That’s all.”
She grabbed the periodical and flipped it open to the page she’d hit him with.
Quillan watched her stare at that page a long while. He felt the weight of the locket against him, the weight of his thoughts, of Carina’s concern, and his own hurt that could overwhelm him if he let it. How could he hold it back? He took Cain’s Bible from the pack at his feet, held it, then opened to a page Cain had dog-eared in the Psalms. How Cain had loved the Psalms. Quillan read down to the line: Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee. Again he felt that sense that it was written for him. Was God speaking to him?
Quillan considered the text. It seemed so simple. Just turn over the bad thoughts, the hard feelings, the rage and disappointment. Cast it all on the Lord. But how? He had a beautiful wife and a new life ahead, with more good fortune in his pockets than he deserved, yet the hurt inside him gnawed. They refused to recognize him, and Mrs. DeMornay—Quillan didn’t even know her first name—she knew he’d spoken the truth. What was it in him that people spurned? What flaw did they see?
Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee. Did he want to turn over the hurt? He’d nursed it so long it was part of him. Most of him. Who was he without it? It drove him, made him fight, made him work, made him succeed. It steeled him for the next rejection. It was all he knew.
Carina gave up pretending to read and watched him. Did she see his resolve to keep the hurt like a grain in his belly, coating and coating it like a treasure forming inside? Was it wrong? Hadn’t he surrendered to God in the cave, given over his life? But the Lord had enough burdens from those who couldn’t carry them. Quillan would carry his own. As his mother and Wolf had before him. He had a vague sense that those burdens had destroyed them. But he pushed that thought away. His trouble made him strong. He had to be strong.
TWELVE
Of all iniquities and sins, judgment I despise.
Enthroned, the self on dais raised, looks down with jaundiced eyes.
—Quillan
CARINA SAW THE HOODED LOOK in Quillan’s eyes. He was closed into himself again. Every hurt, it seemed, put him back inside that place she couldn’t reach. She should have told him at once, let him handle it as he needed to. Why had she protected Mrs. DeMornay when it was Quillan who mattered?
He brooded now—over her duplicity? She hadn’t intended it that way, but how did it appear to Quillan? Why else would he close her out? She had wounded him without thinking, and he withdrew. She sighed. Signore, make me wise to the ways of my husband.
He refused to look when a woman approached from one of the other seats, her cheeks pale but with two pink splotches of excitement. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon? I lose all track of time on the rails.”
Carina formed a polite smile. “Hello.”
The woman rested her hand atop Quillan’s seat to balance. “My name is Priscilla Preston.” She held out a gloved hand.
Carina clasped it briefly. “I’m Carina DiGratia Shepard.”
“Charmed to make your acquaintance.” Miss Preston glanced at Quillan, but Carina didn’t introduce him. He didn’t want to talk. She could sense the storm inside him. In a different mood he would rise and introduce himself, at least attend the conversation for politeness’ sake. Not in his current frame of mind; at least that’s what his scowl said.
Miss Preston seemed to realize he wasn’t going to look her way. “I’m traveling with my aunt to San Francisco.”
“My husband and I are going to my home in Sonoma Valley. To my family.”
“I’m traveling to a relative, as well.” Priscilla brushed at the dust on her sleeve. “Now that Father’s gone, I have only Aunt Prudence and a cousin I detest. It’s unfortunately to him that we’re bound. He’s dreadfully dull. Is your family dull?”
Carina raised her brows. Even if she detested a member of her family, she would not tell a stranger such. “No. My family could never be called dull. Numbers alone would prevent that: parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, some so distantly related I don’t believe they really are.” She smiled. “My papa is a great man. Everyone wants to be family to Angelo Pasquale DiGratia.”
Priscilla’s lips parted, showing two front teeth turned out like a couple on promenade, the other teeth crowded close behind. “My father was a doctor.”
Carina clapped her hands together. “Mine is as well!”
“Really?” Priscilla put her fingers to her cheek. “Father’s practice was phrenology. Are you familiar with it?”
Carina bit her lip,
searching the things Papa had discussed with her. “It seems . . . did it have to do with the mind?”
“The brain and the skull—certain organs in the brain compelling behaviors, identifiable by physical characteristics.” Again she glanced at Quillan. “Father often lectured on Dr. Gall’s methodology. He could look at a person on the street and tell you his inclinations and temperament, as well as physical weaknesses and strengths. It’s scarcely disputed anywhere now. But, of course, not many are well versed in it.”
Carina didn’t think Papa was. At least he didn’t treat anyone according to that science as far as she knew. He treated what he saw in the body. But it was interesting to think you could tell one’s inclinations just by looking. “What characteristics did he look for?”
“May I?” Priscilla waved at the edge of Quillan’s seat, then sat daintily when Carina nodded. If Quillan objected, he could have said so. As long as he was being silent and withdrawn, she may as well converse with someone else.
“Well, you see, once you know where certain organs are located, you can tell by the bumps of the head the strengths and weaknesses in character. For instance, just above the external opening of the ear and extending a little forward and backward above the upper flap of the ear is the organ of destructiveness. If the organ is large, the opening of the ear is depressed. Such a person has the impulse to kill and destroy.” Her eyelids fluttered quickly with the words. “A small endowment there causes a soft character. Combativeness is right about here.” She touched the side of her head. “Hindus are especially lacking in that organ.”
Carina had certainly not heard this before. If Papa was versed in phrenology, it was not something he discussed. She folded her hands across her knee. “Tell me more.”
“In the back of the head is the organ responsible for philoprogenitiveness.” “Philo—”
“A love of one’s offspring. It causes the bulge in the skull for those well endowed. People with flat perpendicular heads are annoyed, rather than delighted, by children.”
Carina noticed Priscilla’s flat head partly disguised by the wrapping of her thin blond hair. Did that mean she disdained children? How strange to think you knew someone by the shape of her head. She glanced at Quillan. If he heard the conversation he showed no sign.
Miss Preston was still talking. “Beneath the posterior edge of the parietal bone is found adhesiveness, the faculty which prompts—”
“Wait now.” Carina waved her hand. “How do they know what’s in the brain beneath the skull?”
“By studying the brain, of course. As I was saying, that’s where you’ll find the faculty of adhesiveness, the desire to embrace, to find joy in friendship and constancy in marriage.”
Carina said, “What does it look like?”
Priscilla paused. “Well, I can’t exactly say. It took years for Father to develop his expertise. I only understand the idea and recognize some of the more outstanding characteristics.”
Carina sat back. Was there validity in this woman’s suppositions?
Priscilla shrugged. “How else do you account for the differences in types?”
“What types do you mean?” And now Carina was curious again. She was sure Papa had not spoken in such terms.
“Why the bilious, the nervous, sanguine, and lymphatic. Doesn’t your father gauge his treatments by these temperaments?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely he must if he’s any kind of reputable doctor.” She took a scented handkerchief from her pocket and sniffed daintily, then dabbed her throat. “The four types were identified years ago. But Dr. Bell’s phrenology was the key, you see.”
Carina didn’t see, but she was willing to listen.
“The types are manifested not only by which body systems predominate, as was formerly believed, but by which faculties in the brain are preeminent.”
“But how do you know these types?”
“That’s simple. The nervous temperament is marked by silky thin hair, thin skin and muscles, paleness, and often, delicate health. Due to a less robust physique, the mind is vitally active. It is the temperament of genius and refinement.”
Carina noted Priscilla was describing herself. “And the others?”
“The bilious temperament has a determined disposition, black hair, dark eyes and skin, firmness of flesh. An energetic brain manifestation suited to enduring much mental and bodily labor.”
The physical characteristics were her own, Carina mused, but did that mean she was a workhorse?
“The sanguine are moderately plump, red haired, ruddy. Fond of outdoor exercise. The lymphatic: corpulent, fair skinned, weak, and slow. The brain is also feeble in function.”
Carina thought of Mae. There was nothing feeble in her brain, and she was as strong and vital as anyone Carina knew. She settled back against the seat, certain now she’d been served a dose of quackery.
“Then, of course, there are any number of combinations.”
But Carina had heard enough. “What happened to your father?”
“Yellow fever. His temperament, of course, was the nervous type. He lacked the constitution to battle the disease as a more hardy, less brilliant type might have.” She sighed. “So I must travel to my cousin and place myself under his protection. Aunt Prudence and I can hardly hope to support ourselves as we’re accustomed.”
Carina supposed Priscilla was lacking in adhesiveness as well as philo . . . whatever that word was that meant she didn’t like children, or she might consider marrying.
“Well.” Priscilla straightened. “Auntie’s getting agitated.” She indicated a thin woman with equally bulging eyes. “I’d better go.” She hesitated, as though expecting to be retained, then whisked back to her seat.
Carina looked at Quillan. “What did you think of that business?”
He frowned. “I wonder which bump governs gab.”
So he had been listening. Carina smiled. “It must go along with genius in the nervous type.”
He leaned forward to take her hand in his. “I prefer my bilious wife. I’ll get more work from her.”
Carina snatched her hand away. “The very thought! No wonder some people think they can lord it over others. Because someone is heavy or dark—why, if she knew how silly and patronizing she sounded—”
“She wouldn’t care. She has it all figured out. There’s no changing that sort’s mind. Trust me.” Quillan settled back, again wearing his surly scowl. Carina read his mood, felt him withdraw. Would that always be his way? She sighed.
But before they could settle into silence, another woman approached, perhaps emboldened by Miss Preston’s attempt to draw them into the social interaction of the Pullman crowd. She made no pretense at Carina, but spoke directly to Quillan. “How do you do, sir. Are you a sporting man?”
Carina looked over the small-framed woman and wondered what sport she could possibly mean. After the last conversation she would be surprised at nothing.
Quillan turned, and that was all the invitation the woman needed, apparently. She took out a deck of cards and raised her eyebrows. “Poker or vingt-et-un?”
Quillan’s mouth quirked. “Neither, thank you. My wife and I are conversing.”
The woman glanced Carina’s way, shrugged, and passed on to the next seats.
Carina said, “Conversing? I thought you didn’t want to talk.”
Quillan returned his attention to Carina. “I certainly don’t want to squander cash on a lady cardsharp.”
So that was it. The three gentlemen in the next seat didn’t seem to have such qualms. The woman had insinuated herself among them and was shuffling with agile, dainty fingers. For the next half hour Carina watched her win hand after hand as the men’s faces grew longer and darker with each.
Carina scrutinized her husband. “How did you know she would win?”
“She cheats.”
“What do you mean?”
“No sharp is without a marked deck or extra cards in a lacy sleeve or any
number of tricks. Only a fool would accept that offer.”
“Or three.”
The woman was being asked to leave. Not so politely, either. A moment later another game started in the back corner of the car, near the retiring room located behind the curtain. A corpulent man brushed aside the curtain and joined the game, adjusting the waist of his breeches. Several curious parties looked on. Were they all gullible? How did Quillan know the woman was a cheat?
“Can you see her tricks?”
Quillan shook his head. “I’ve never spent enough time at the tables to learn them, nor do I suppose I’d catch on quickly. I only know enough not to be taken in.”
“It comes from a distrustful nature.”
He declined his head in agreement. “Guilty. But why should I trust before someone proves trustworthy?”
Carina smiled. “I should take lessons from you. Trusting everyone leads to trouble.”
The train whistle blew, and Quillan stretched, then looked out the window. “Cheyenne station. We need to change trains.” They had headed almost due north from Denver. Now they would go west. He started gathering their things for the porter. “I’ll need to see that the wagon is transferred. Are you hungry?”
She nodded, looking out the window as the train pulled to a stop. Though the largest and most important city in the Wyoming territory, the ramshackle town of Cheyenne looked as though it had blown in from the vast, windswept land and snagged like tumbleweeds along the tracks.
“Come on.” Quillan took her arm and angled her through the other disembarking passengers. Carina headed for the public diner while Quillan made arrangements for the horses and wagon.
As she walked toward the station, she watched the other passengers rush to transfer their baggage, take care of any other needs, and grab food in the scant time allotted. The stops, she was learning, were orchestrated to cause the most panic in the least amount of time. The crowd around the rectangular counter that surrounded the servers was a hive, people darting in between bodies to place and snatch their orders, paying before the food was transferred to their hands.
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 15
