“I would like to look at some gowns, Thackery,” she said, waving toward the shop.
“Certainly, Mrs. Saint. I’ll be right here when you come out.”
Mrs. Saint! She’d tried to make him call her Jules, but he merely smiled at her and continued with “Mrs. Saint.” Jules nodded brightly and walked, shoulders back, into the store. She pretended to be interested in the new shipment of gowns from France. Every few minutes she peered out the window. Damn, Thackery hadn’t moved an inch!
She spoke briefly to the dapper Monsieur David, then slipped out the back of the store. The gun shop, run by Marcus Haverson, was just a block down Kearny Street. She’d stolen some money from Michael’s strongbox just that morning. No, she amended to herself, it was her money too. After all, wasn’t she Mrs. Saint?
Ten minutes later, she was the proud owner of a derringer. In another ten minutes she had rejoined Thackery.
Thackery arched a black brow. His young mistress looked awfully smug, and there wasn’t one package in her arms. He wondered what she was up to. This jaunt of hers into a dress shop, looking all sorts of innocent and guileless, was unusual, and he was suspicious. She was a handful, but he didn’t mind that. She was never boring. But she was unhappy. He was quite certain of that, even though she never said anything particularly unhappy. She was bright, chatty, interested in everything they saw. They’d visited the Russ Gardens, the old Dolores Mission, even the racetrack. But still . . .
He supposed it natural for her to be wary of that bastard Wilkes. But he would see to that man if he ever dared to show his face. No, it wasn’t all Wilkes, he didn’t think. He wished he could figure it out. Her husband was a very nice man who, as far as Thackery could tell, treated his young wife like one of those pieces of Dresden china Mrs. Hammond loved so much.
“I didn’t like anything,” Jules said, which was true, she supposed. She twisted her hands a bit nervously, aware of Thackery’s suspicious look. To her relief, he didn’t say anything. It didn’t occur to her until later that she didn’t know a single thing about guns. She eyed the long-barreled gun tucked into Thackery’s belt, realizing she had to trust somebody. It was late afternoon, but she said to Thackery, “I would like to ride to the ocean. We’re very close to the stables. All right?”
Thackery merely nodded. He would have preferred a visit to the Saxtons. He and Lucas were becoming friends, and he was fascinated by Lucas’ tales of the gold fields.
When they reached the ocean, he listened with half an ear to Mrs. Saint carrying on about some long-legged birds that were skittering across the sand dunes. A bird was a bird, for God’s sake.
When Jules saw that they were quite alone, she paused a moment, drew a deep breath, and blurted out, “I bought a derringer, Thackery. I want you to teach me how to use it.”
“So,” Thackery said on a deep breath, “that’s what you were up to.”
“Will you teach me how to use it?” Jules asked, her eyes steady on his face.
Thackery scratched the black woolly hair on his head. “No, ma’am,” he said finally. “That’s my job. Ain’t nobody going to get to you while I’m here.”
“If you don’t teach me, I will sneak away and practice by myself. You know I can do it, Thackery.”
“You need to have your bottom thwacked, Mrs. Saint,” Thackery said, his dark eyes calm on her upturned face.
Jules said nothing, trying to stare him down. But Thackery was made of stern stuff. “I’ll tell Dr. Saint,” he said.
“He won’t care!”
Thackery looked thoughtful. “Why not?”
She looked to him as though she wanted to cry and spit all at the same time. She said finally, “I am his cross to bear. You must know that he saved me, Thackery, then had to marry me because my father kicked me out. He didn’t want to, but he’s honorable. He really doesn’t care what I do or don’t do, just so long as I don’t bother him.”
Thackery heard the pain in her voice, and his reaction to it shocked him. He knew loyalty, indeed he did. Both the good Lord and Thackery knew how much he owed Mr. Hammond. But he’d sworn he’d never again trust another white. Until Mrs. Saint. Poor little mite. When he’d been a slave, it had never occurred to him that a white man or white woman could know a moment of unhappiness. Whiteness seemed to him then to be the key to all that was pleasant on this damned earth. Well, maybe white folk in California had more problems than those in Mississippi. He looked at Mrs. Saint, saw the pleading and defiance in those vivid green eyes of hers, and knew he had to say something, do something.
He temporized. “I could just take that little thing away from you, Mrs. Saint.”
“You try it, Thackery,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowed, “and I’ll . . . well, I’ll make you very sorry.”
“You just would, wouldn’t you? No, don’t answer that. I ain’t going to help you, and that’s that.”
He wouldn’t budge, and after another few minutes of fierce arguing, Jules gave up. She refused to speak to him all the way back to San Francisco. His last words before he left her at home were, “I’m going to the Wild Star to see Mr. Hammond. You just keep that damned toy put away, you hear?”
“I hear,” Jules said, and stomped into the house.
“What are you doing here?” Jules asked Thomas a few moments later. She was surprised to see him at home.
Thomas gave her a big smile. “I came home to ask Lydia to make something special for dinner. Penelope is coming.”
Jules groaned. “Does she have manners yet, Thomas?”
“If she throws her peas at you, I’ll put her bottom in the air,” he said, grinning widely. “Oh, yes, the Hammonds are in the city, and Saint invited them also. Seven o’clock. All right?”
Jules nodded. “Where is Michael?” she asked.
Thomas scratched his head. “I think he said something about seeing a Mrs. Branigan.”
Jules sucked in her breath. His mistress! No, she amended, not his mistress. His lover, his former lover. “Why?” she asked, and immediately regretted asking.
“How would I know, sis? He’s a doctor, isn’t he?”
But Saint wasn’t being a doctor, not on this visit. He sat in Jane’s parlor, a cup of tea balanced on his knee. The boys were outside playing at last, and Jane was fidgeting about, straightening the pillows on a chair.
“Well?” Saint asked finally.
“It’s your wife, Saint,” Jane said, watching him closely. She saw him close his eyes briefly, a look of pain crossing his face.
“What about her?” he asked harshly.
“Joe saw her today. She bought a gun at Haverson’s. I thought you should know.”
Saint stared at her, disbelieving. “He’s wrong,” he said flatly. “There’s no earthly reason for her to buy a gun. Thackery is with her all the time.”
“Joe assured me it was true,” Jane said. “That boy likes to fight, but he doesn’t lie. You know that, Saint.”
“Hell and damnation! Sorry, Jane.” He set down the teacup and rose to his feet. “I don’t bloody believe this!” He began pacing in ferocious silence, his brow knit.
“You should also know,” Jane continued carefully after a few moments, “that she visited Maggie the other afternoon. I heard it from a man who came to pick up his shirts. He didn’t understand why Saint Morris’ wife was visiting a whorehouse.”
“Shit,” said Saint very softly. “Sorry, Jane.”
“There appears to be a serpent in paradise.”
Yes, he thought, the serpent was his damned manhood! Such a ridiculous thought brought a momentary smile to his face. A rigid serpent. He laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“Saint,” Jane said, moving quickly to him and laying her hand lightly on his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but I thought you should know.” She regretted her sarcastic comment, and wanted to make amends. “Please, Saint, if you want to talk about it, you know I’m a good listener.”
“There’s nothing whatsoever to talk about,” he sa
id. “I suppose I knew things weren’t going all that well, but there’s nothing like keeping one’s eyes closed, is there? No, don’t answer that, Jane. I’ve got to be going. I have the dubious pleasure of having Penelope Stevenson to dinner this evening.”
“Good luck, Saint,” she called after him softly, but he didn’t hear her.
Saint entered their bedroom close to an hour later. Jules was splashing like a happy, unconcerned child in the tub. He paused in the doorway, wondering whether or not to retreat. She saw him and fell instantly silent.
“Hello, Jules,” he said awkwardly.
Jules felt a wave of color wash over her cheeks. She sank down a few inches in the water. Why should I be embarrassed? she thought, suddenly angry. He knows . . . everything. “I shall be finished in just a moment,” she said, raising her chin.
Saint made the mistake of allowing his eyes to leave her face. He felt an instant tightening in his loins at the sight of her soft white shoulders, the tops of her breasts. He swallowed, and backed up. “I’ll be downstairs, Jules. I need a bath also. Just call me when you’re finished.”
He disliked her so much he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her! She was sorely tempted to climb out of the tub and hurl the water at him. But she didn’t. She said only, her voice nasty, “How sorry I am that you had to work so very hard this afternoon. What was wrong with Mrs. Branigan, anyway?”
He forced his eyes back to her face. He thought of the damned gun, of her visit to Maggie. Here she was attacking him like a shrew for his visit to Jane! For God’s sake, he’d told her he wouldn’t sleep with Jane anymore! His eyes darkened, and he said coldly, “Why, nothing at all was wrong with Jane. Nothing at all. Not everyone I visit is ill, you know.”
She wanted to yell at him, but she pressed her lips together and lowered her head. She heard his harsh breathing, heard the bedroom door slam, then listened to his retreating footsteps down the corridor.
“He’s a miserable man,” she whispered, and hated herself for the wretched tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I guess that makes us about even, since I’m a miserable woman.”
Penelope had never before been in Saint Morris’ house. It was dreadfully small and not at all well-appointed. Well, she was here and she supposed she must make the best of it. After all, Saint was Thomas’ brother-in-law. She greeted Saint with cool politeness and tried her rarely used charm on Thomas’ sister. What wild red hair, she thought, thankful of her own smooth flaxen tresses.
“How nice to see you again,” Jules said, wondering for perhaps the dozenth time what Thomas saw in this dreadful girl. Her voice could chill the wine.
“Yes,” Penelope said. “Dr. Morris,” she added, gracefully inclining her long neck. “My parents send their regards.”
“How about a glass of sherry, Pen?” Thomas asked.
Jules watched Penelope turn a beguiling smile on her brother. Pen! Penelope’s voice softened as much as her eyes. “Oh yes, Thomas, that would be very nice.”
Saint was markedly silent until the Hammonds arrived, full of good cheer and laughter. Byrony’s stomach was well-rounded now, and her skin had that glowing, almost translucent look that some women gained when pregnant. “As I live and breathe,” Byrony said in a very sweet voice. “Penelope! How very delightful. How I wish the Saxtons were here also.”
Penelope didn’t know what to do. She felt Thomas’ hand on hers, squeezing, and she forced a big smile. “Hello,” she said. “It is very good to see you both again. Mother is so pleased with the amount of money we raised for your slaves, Mr. Hammond.”
“There are no slaves in California,” Byrony said sweetly.
“Yes, Pen,” Thomas added, “you must begin to listen and perhaps read the newspaper. It would give you all sorts of useful information.”
Brent Hammond was watching this interplay with some interest. He said quietly to Saint, “Your brother-in-law has more guts that I. Does she always roll over and play dead when he tromps on her?”
“He does handle her,” Saint said, “and very well, it appears. I doubt you’ll hear too many sly innuendos out of her tonight.”
“How is Thackery?” Brent asked abruptly.
“Fine,” said Saint. Brent followed his friend’s gaze to Jules. She looked inordinately lovely in a dark green silk gown that was fashioned low on her white shoulders. Her flame-colored hair was intricately arranged in thick coronet braids atop her head. Curling tendrils framed her face.
“I spoke to him briefly before we came in,” Brent said. “He informs me that your wife is a handful. But when I questioned him further, he became as closemouthed as a clam. I fear he’s shifted his loyalty to your little one there. He is, I suppose one would say, firmly in her pocket.”
Saint didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to think about it, at least not this evening. “Does Byrony have any more nausea in the mornings?” he asked.
Brent arched a questioning brow, but allowed the shift in topic. “No, she informs me she’s healthy as I am, but fatter. You don’t expect any problems, Saint?”
Saint did, but he didn’t say anything. No sense in making Brent worry. If the child grew large, Byrony would have difficulties, for her pelvis was narrower than Jules’s. “No problems,” he said aloud. “Just make certain I’m around a couple of days before she’s due to deliver.”
“We’ll be settled in Wakeville for the winter. You don’t mind trekking down? You’ll stay with us as our guest. Jules also, of course.”
“That would be fine. And don’t worry, Brent.”
“If you insist. Incidentally, Maggie was telling me that Jules—”
Saint raised his hand. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve already been informed. I intend to speak to Maggie tomorrow. Now, let’s join the ladies and masterful, romantic Thomas.”
To her profound surprise, Penelope found that she was enjoying herself. Certainly the fact that Thomas squeezed her hand in a meaningful way occasionally under the table made her smile, but she hadn’t imagined that she would actually enjoy having dinner with a gambler and a girl from Maui and a doctor. And a pregnant lady!
“. . . and then Limpin’ Willie told me that he returned the hundred dollars to the man’s pocket and sent him on his way,” Saint said. “He told me the fellow had one of my bandages on his arm. Thought I’d be upset if he did him in after I’d fixed him up.”
He paused a moment to let the laughter die down.
“I think you should run for mayor, Saint,” Byrony said. “You would gain more votes than any man in the history of San Francisco.”
“Saint,” Thomas said, sitting forward in his chair, “tell us the story about Napoleon and his one experience with a cathartic.”
“In front of the ladies, Thomas? And I believe you’ve already told it. Needless to say, he refused any further treatment of that sort.”
“What’s a cathartic?” Penelope asked.
“The opposite of an emetic,” Thomas said, hooting with laughter.
“Thomas!”
“Yes, Pen?” Thomas asked, his face as innocent and guileless as his sister’s was when she wanted to fool Thackery, Saint thought. Which evidently she had. She hadn’t spoken one word directly to him all evening. He wanted to be alone with her. He wanted to yell at her and shake her. He wanted . . . Oh no, you damned randy bastard! Not that, not again.
He sat back and pretended to listen to Brent describe their progress at Wakeville. Lydia’s roast beef sat like leather in his stomach, as had her attempt at Yorkshire pudding. He sipped at his wine, his gaze going to his wife’s face.
What the hell was he going to do with her? He’d hurt her badly, but that didn’t excuse her recent behavior. He supposed he would have to speak with Thackery, have the man keep a closer eye on her.
“Michael?”
He was jerked out of his fog. “What?” he said, turning to Jules.
“The ladies will be in the parlor,” she said, rising. He quickly stepp
ed to her side and politely held her chair. She didn’t look at him.
“We won’t be long,” Saint said.
Another two hours passed before they were alone. Thomas left to drive Penelope home, and Brent, his voice light and amusing, claimed his fat wife needed her rest, which gained him Byrony’s elbow in his ribs.
Saint said without preamble, “I want to talk to you, Jules.”
“I’m tired,” she said, moving toward the parlor door. “I’m going to bed. You know, Michael, it’s that rather large piece of furniture up in the bedroom. Good night.”
“Jules!”
He jumped to his feet and strode after her. “You come back here!” he shouted to her retreating back on the stairs.
Jules paused at the top of the stairs, curled her lip at him, and said coldly, “Oh no. It seems that the parlor has become your bedroom. I have no intention of speaking to you there.”
“Damn you,” he growled, and stalked up the stairs after her.
20
Let him come in, Jules thought, stomping into the bedroom. She stopped in the middle of the room, turned, and faced the open doorway.
Perhaps she should begin taking off her clothes—that would stop him in his tracks!
Her fingers went to the long row of buttons.
“Don’t you dare,” Saint said, coming into the room. He paused a moment, then slammed the door closed behind him. “Leave those buttons alone!”
“Why?” she asked, unfastening yet another. “Would you find it so very repulsive? I thought doctors were quite used to seeing naked women.”
“I want to talk to you, not see you with nothing on but your hair.” What game was she playing, damn her!
Jules sat down on the swivel chair in front of the dresser, folded her hands primly in her lap, and began to twiddle her thumbs. “Yes?” she asked.
We used to be such good friends, he thought, staring down at her, his frustration mounting. She used to trust me, to . . . love me. No, not that, you ass! She loved you as a child would an older brother. He said, “Why did you buy a gun today?”
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