by Megan Chance
"Are you so certain of the past that you'd deny me out of fear?" he asked. "Are you so certain it's not what you want? Is your life here with him so much better?"
"I need some time," I said, dismayed to hear the tremolo in my voice. "Just a little more."
"You have a week," he said.
THAT NIGHT I flirted with the men and kept my vigil at Jim Ryan's table when things got tense, and took my place behind the bar, just as always. I kept a smile on my face. I played my role as well as I had ever played it. But in my head, I heard Gideon's words like a song I could not forget. "You have a week." "Marry me."
I watched Johnny across the room. Everything he'd done for me, everything I'd made here, seemed built of sea foam, easily blown away, and the very fact of that frightened me, the kind of power Gideon had over me, the things he made me want....
When Johnny came over, I smiled at him and tried to feel desire and it wasn't there, though I wanted it to be so badly I wished it into existence. I turned to kiss him and brought my hands to his hips, and he laughed a little and said, "I've got some things to talk over with the deputy tonight about the changes here. I won't be done until late. You'd best go on to McGraw's."
I was relieved and grateful, though I tried to hide it. Perhaps I wasn't as successful as I'd hoped, because his expression was a little too thoughtful as he looked at me; I felt suddenly exposed, as if he knew ... but that was only my imagination. If Johnny had known about Gideon, he would hardly be this sanguine.
I left that night well before the customers; it seemed the walls of the Palace were closing in around me.
I sat on my bed, huddled into the corner, listening to the rain beat down upon the roof and against the window while Gideon's words seemed to beat in time with it. "Are you so certain of the past that you'd deny me out of fear?"
I glanced at the bureau. I wanted nothing more than to keep my distance. But I found myself crossing the room, opening the drawer, pulling out the things I'd hidden so carefully. I laid aside the brooch. Beneath it was my journal. Settled, as if it belonged, as if it were four and a half years ago and it was simply waiting in another drawer in another fine hotel for me to open it.
I gathered it into my hands and closed the drawer again with my knee, and then I laid it on the bed, and I lit the candle on the bed table and settled back into my corner against the wall.
The board covers were a little warped, as if water had spilled upon them; when I opened the first pages I saw the stain of it marking them, the slight smear of the ink where the water had touched. The writing was fluid, scrambling across the page, quick and impatient, sprawling in a race to the very right edge and then cramping as if the letters were falling over one another at a sudden stop, the edge coming too quickly, too unexpected.
Slowly, I brought my eyes to the top of the page.
New York City, December 10, 1870--Gideon is back from the tour at last!!!
The emotions came bubbling up as if they'd been locked away and these first words were the key to releasing them, and I remembered: my excitement at seeing him again, my hopes rising as he'd cajoled Mama and Papa into letting me tour, the agreement that he and Barret should go with me, Willa's anger, the words she'd flung at me. "Everything this family does is for you! I'm tired of sacrificing for you, Sabine, do you hear me? You'd take everything from me if I let you!"
I slapped the book shut without reading the rest, overcome, my vision blurring. I shoved it beneath the bed so hard it hit the wall. Then I blew out the lamp and huddled beneath my blankets and stared into the darkness. I'd never asked Willa to sacrifice. That was Gideon's doing, even then. "I saw a fortune in you." That was the truth. I didn't need to read this journal to see it. I had been there.
------
I WAS NOT asleep when I heard the soft rap upon my door, but I meant to pretend I was. I lay quiet and still, but she was not dissuaded.
"Marguerite?" I heard her call, and then the door creaked open, the shadow of her leaned in. "Marguerite? You awake?"
And I said, "Yes."
She came fully inside, closing the door behind her. Within the darkness she was a deeper shadow, and there was no moonlight to ease in through the window to make her real. She could have been a dream; I was half convinced she was until she sat on the edge of my bed and put her hand to my forehead, smoothing back my hair, which I had not bothered to twist or braid.
"I thought ... you need to henna. You want me to do it?"
"No," I said.
Her hand shifted from my forehead, down my cheek, that strange half-numb touch at my scar. She hesitated, as if she'd touched it by accident and didn't know best how to proceed, then when I said nothing, she traced it down, from my temple to my jaw, the way a lover might, the way Gideon had.
I turned my face away. Her hand slipped to my neck.
"You planning to go off with him?" she asked--so quietly, as if she had to ask the question but was dreading the answer.
I didn't pretend shock that she knew. I didn't pretend anything at all. "I don't know," I whispered.
She sighed. "You remember that night on the wharf? With the phosphorescence?"
"Yes."
"You were happy that night, weren't you?"
I couldn't speak.
"You were happy here for a long time, before he came. Or were you just pretending?"
"I was ... trying," I managed.
She was quiet. Then she rose. "I'll let you get some sleep."
I grabbed for her hand as she turned to go. I got her wrist, and wrapped my fingers tight around it, but once I had her I wasn't certain why I'd done so; I had nothing to say. She turned back to me and leaned down, kissing me lightly. "Good night." I released her, and she straightened, and neither of us said anything more as she went to the door, where she paused and looked back at me, and I felt the weight of her worry in the darkness between us, and I could do nothing to appease it.
THE NEXT MORNING I went to the church with a heaviness in my chest I could not dislodge. Gideon was standing outside the front door, huddled against the wind with the folio beneath his arm, his hair blowing in his face as he smoked his cigarette. In that moment before he saw me, I paused, staring at him, soaking him in, and then he looked up.
"There you are," he said, throwing his cigarette to the ground. "You're late."
"I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well."
He gave me a sharp look; I knew he was looking for the reason, but he only stood back to let me go into the church before him, and together we went to the storage room.
Halfway through the warm-ups, he stopped playing. When I looked at him in surprise, he said, "Let's not do this today."
"What?"
"Let's not practice. Come with me. We'll take a walk. We'll have lunch. We'll go back to the hotel. Whatever you want."
"But ... why?"
"Because you're unhappy," he said quietly. "I never meant to make you unhappy, Bina."
"I'm not unhappy."
"You don't want to leave him."
"I don't want to hurt him. But that's not it, really. It's--"
"Yes, I know. You don't trust me." He sighed, and I heard his disappointment and his pain in the sound, and that was different too. I meant to say something to soothe him, but he ran his hands over the keys before I could speak as if he knew my platitudes already and had no wish to hear them. It was just notes at first, and then they coalesced into a song, and one that he knew by heart. Of course he did. He'd played it a hundred times before. Nearly as often as I'd sung it.
"All Things Love Thee."
My heart felt squeezed. But when my turn came, I sang for the simple joy of it--this was no coloratura aria, and there was nothing difficult about it, but thousands of people knew me by this song. Since the day Mr. Wilson had given it to me to sing, it had been mine. It said Sabine Conrad as nothing else did, as nothing else ever would.
"'When thou dost in slumbers lie, All things love thee, so do I. All things love thee, all things love thee
, all things love thee, so do I.'"
It was over before I was ready. Gideon settled on the final chord, and then we both stayed there, still, listening as the echoing notes melted slowly away.
Then he said only, "Beautiful."
He stood up, gathering the music. The smile he gave me was heartbreaking. As he put the folio beneath his arm and went to the door, I wished he would hold me. I wanted him to tell me we were going for the walk he'd suggested, or to lunch, or back to the hotel.
He said none of those things. He blew out the lamp and opened the door. I followed him out. The door clicked shut behind us. Gideon stopped short. I nearly walked into him before I looked up, before I saw who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
It was Charlotte, with Robert Marsdon.
And Johnny.
CHAPTER 24
J ohnny leaned against the wall, and when he saw me he pushed away, straightening. He clapped his hands in slow applause. "Well, well. That was beautiful, Miss Conrad. I heard you sing that once in San Francisco. I think I'd recognize your voice anywhere."
I threw a horrified glance to Charlotte, who gripped Robert Marsdon's arm.
Marsdon said, "Forgive me for not keeping your secret, Miss ... Olson. But you seemed troubled, and"--he threw a wary glance at Gideon--"and I wasn't certain of the situation. Then Charlotte was so worried.... Well, I meant only to help."
Gideon looked at me. "Your friends, I take it?"
Dully, I said, "You know Dr. Marsdon. And this is Johnny Langford, who runs the Palace. And Charlotte Rainey. Gideon Price."
Johnny stepped forward, offering his hand. His eyes were like stone. "Ah yes, Mr. Price, I've heard a great deal about you. I helped run the Luxe Theater when you were in San Francisco last. Your company--and Miss Conrad, of course--was very popular, I remember."
Gideon shook his hand. He was rigidly courteous. "San Francisco was good to us."
"I remember watching them pull her carriage down the middle of the street," Johnny said. His gaze came to me. "The Angel of San Francisco, they called her. Of course, that was before that Frenchie's murder."
"Johnny, please," I murmured.
He ignored me and said to Gideon, "How'd you like Sing Sing?"
Gideon's smile was wry. "It left a great deal to be desired."
"Sing Sing?" Charlotte said loudly.
Johnny said, "Why, Charlotte, how is it you don't know this about your friend? That ain't Marguerite Olson you're looking at, it's Sabine Conrad. Didn't she tell you that?"
"Sabine Conrad," Charlotte said flatly.
"The premier prima donna in America," Johnny told her. "Didn't she tell you the story? She and her manager here killed some French impresario. Mr. Price went to prison. She ran off. No one's seen her since. Don't you read the papers? Why, I heard she fled to Africa. Or maybe it was Turkey. Some far-off land, anyway. I'm disappointed she didn't see fit to share it with you. I guess you must not have been the friends you thought you were."
I saw the pain in Charlotte's eyes. I looked away.
"But then again, I been fucking her the last four years, and she didn't tell me."
I had not thought the horror could be worse. I felt Gideon stiffen beside me.
"Johnny." My voice sounded constricted. "Please don't do this."
"Don't do what, honey? What's wrong? Oh, were you planning to keep this all a secret? Pardon me. My mistake. You'll understand, though, why I might be a bit ... annoyed? What was it we were all talking about just the other night? And there you sat, mute as a stone. Well, now, I guess Prosch knew what he was saying, didn't he? Price got out of prison and ran straight to you."
I was horribly aware of Robert Marsdon's ashamed curiosity, and Gideon's stillness, and Charlotte's accusing stare.
"Could we talk about this somewhere else, Johnny?" I said weakly. "Somewhere ... private."
"Don't you want him to know? Ain't he your manager? Or maybe ... I guess he might be more than that. You only been practicing with him, honey? Or you been fucking him too?"
I shook my head desperately. In panic, I said, "No. We were only practicing. And he was my manager. He's not anymore." I heard Gideon's quick expulsion of breath. So did Johnny.
He looked at Gideon. "Is that so?"
For a moment, Gideon said nothing, and I remembered what he'd said to me, about not wanting secrets any longer, about showing the world what we were to each other, and I knew what I'd said hurt him. But I had no choice. I turned to him, hoping he would understand, but he didn't look at me, and I felt this break within myself, this fracturing, a barrier between us that had never been there before.
Gideon said, "I don't want anything to do with her." His voice was harsh and blunt and dismissive; I felt as if he'd struck me. He moved away from me as if he couldn't stand to be near, crossing to the stairs, and for a moment Johnny stood there, blocking the way as if he might not let him pass, and Gideon said, "I'm done wasting my time. Good luck with her. You'll need it."
Johnny moved aside, and Gideon went up the stairs.
"Gideon," I said, starting after him. "Gideon, no--"
Gideon didn't look back, and Johnny stepped to block me. I tried to push past him, but he grabbed my arm to keep me there and said, "You and me got some things to talk about, honey."
I heard Gideon's footsteps recede, and then he was gone, and it seemed that whatever had been holding me up had folded; it was only Johnny keeping me upright.
"I knew you were a liar," Charlotte said in an angry whisper. "I knew you never told me a true thing. How you must have laughed at me. All your damn secrets--"
"Perhaps it would be best if we went, my dear." Robert Marsdon took Charlotte's arm, nudging gently.
"What about your own secrets, Charlotte?" I asked nastily. Charlotte froze. I told myself to stop. I told myself not to say it. Still, I heard my own voice, hurt and bitter and angry. "Has Charlotte told you about those, Dr. Marsdon? Has she told you she works the stage and the boxes down at the Palace? Did she tell you she's a whore?"
Robert dropped his hand from her arm. He was ashen. He said, "Charlotte, is that true?"
Charlotte made a sound like a yelp; the look she gave me was horrible. She turned and ran up the stairs. When Marsdon followed, going after her like a dead man, I felt a kind of painful satisfaction, as if I'd bitten down hard on an aching tooth and then released it, the numb relief of after.
Johnny said, "You're a piece of work, Miss Conrad, ain't you?"
In that moment I felt a terrible horror at what I'd done, and I tried to jerk away from Johnny to go after her, to go after Gideon, I hardly knew which. Only that both were gone and I had forced them away, and I did not know how to live without them. But Johnny held me tight, his fingers pinching.
"Let me go," I said.
He said, "How you do wound me, honey."
And then I heard the pain in his voice, and I knew with dismay that I'd hurt him too. I'd wanted so to save him from it--no, a little voice whispered honestly, you wanted to save yourself. Gideon had been right when he'd said I'd always done just what I wanted. It would have been better to tell Johnny outright. I had owed him that, if nothing else.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"It don't help," he said curtly.
But I knew what would. I knew it with a sick apprehension, and a realization that the decision I'd been denying for weeks was made--that, in fact, it had been made long ago and I had been too selfish to heed it.
I met Johnny's gaze. "Call Thomas Prosch. Tell him you found Sabine Conrad."
He frowned, and then I saw the moment he understood. I saw the quick light of ambition in his eyes, the thing that had always been stronger than his love for me. "You sure, honey?"
That he even asked was humbling and completely undeserved. I swallowed hard the lump that rose in my throat and nodded. "I'm sure."
AFTER THAT, EVERYTHING happened so quickly I could not keep it straight. Johnny sent Duncan for Thomas Prosch, and he was
at the Palace within minutes. "I can't believe I didn't see it," he said, seating himself at the table where Johnny and I waited. "Why, it's clear as day now that I know!" His gaze seemed to consume me--my hair, where the roots shone oddly golden, the scar, the cheapness of my dress. He pulled a carte de visite from his pocket and held it out to me with a hand visibly trembling with excitement. "It looks just like you."
