“I do not care, I do not care, Cherie!” he cried. “If Mr. Barrie can find girls without mustaches, so can we!”
Evelyn snorted. So that was why this hall’s only customers were wrinkly old men. Their eyes were not sharp enough to see the hair upon the dancers’ lips.
“Do you know how much business he brings in, Cherie?” the man continued, speaking of the aforesaid Mr. Barrie. “It is a simple answer. All of his, and all of mine! I am left with nothing. Nothing! I want you to do something about it, Cherie. I do not pay you for nothing!”
In French, Cherie replied that he, in fact, did not pay her, and had not for some time.
Evelyn moved to adjust herself when her hand slipped and forced a strip of keys down at once, filling the place with a sudden clamor. She grimaced, and behind the curtain, the bickering ceased.
A spectacled man with greased hair, parted straight down the middle, popped his head through the middle of the curtain. He was an American, which would have surprised Evelyn if she had not already become acquainted with the eccentricities of Panama City. Many local business owners were not local in the least. They were international opportunists who preyed upon the readily wasted fortunes of the forty-niners.
His eyes darted to Evelyn, who pushed the bench away and stood regally beside the instrument.
“Christ!” the man cried. “Just what do you think you are doing at my piano, missy?”
Evelyn frowned at the greeting. Such manners! Mustachioed girls were obviously not the only thing that kept customers away from this house.
“I should have liked something to eat,” she said, offense apparent in her voice. “But if I am to be treated thus, I think I shall retreat to the eating house across the lane.”
She cast a regretful glance upon the piano, then turned to leave. Perhaps she would find another one elsewhere.
“Wait a minute!” the man cried, bursting from the curtains and crossing the stage. “Wait a minute!”
He rushed towards Evelyn and stood between her and the entrance.
“I am at your service,” he told her.
She peered down her nose at him.
“I’m not so sure I want your service, sir.”
“But you do, you do! For it is ten times better than Mr. Barrie’s.”
“And pray, who is Mr. Barrie?”
“The conman across the street.”
“The one with the prettier girls?” Evelyn smirked.
The man took a step back, his expression immediately suspicious.
“You’re not one of ‘em, are ya?” he asked sharply.
Evelyn scoffed.
“Do I look like a dancer?” she cried, indignant.
The man looked her over.
“No, I suppose not,” he replied. “So what are you, then?”
Evelyn placed her hands upon her hips. The smell of this place was one thing; she had not expected to be accosted by the owner himself.
“I should like to be a customer!” she replied.
“And what were you doing at my piano?”
Evelyn rolled her eyes. Really, this man was relentless.
“Are you going to serve me, sir?” she asked. “Or shall I take my leave?”
“Right, right,” the man muttered. “Forgive me, ma’am. Come this way.”
He led her to a table and asked her to have a seat.
“I am Mr. Dupont, by the way. American by birth, French by marriage, Panamanian by citizenship. Pleased to meet you, Miss…”
“Brennan.” Evelyn recalled the woman with whom Mr. Dupont had argued only moments ago. “That Frenchwoman is your wife?”
Again, Mr. Dupont looked suspicious.
“You know her?” he asked quickly. “Did she find you? Is she responsible for bringing you here?”
This was certainly not the respite Evelyn had been hoping for.
“Do you accost all of your paying customers, Mr. Dupont?” she asked. “It is no wonder to me why all of your business flees to Mr. Barrie.”
Mr. Dupont hesitated, then sighed.
“Again, forgive me. I have had a rough morning.”
“As have I, but you would not know that, would you? For you are too busy sniveling over your own affairs.”
“I do not wish to lose your business, madam. Might I offer reconciliation? May we start over by me welcoming you, and asking if I may get you something to drink?”
Evelyn was appeased by Mr. Dupont’s adoption of servitude, and was obliged to forget the matter of food in favor of the silent piano in the corner of the room.
“You might tell me about your lovely instrument, Mr. Dupont.”
That sharp look returned to the man’s eyes.
“What of it?”
“Don’t you have a hired musician?”
“I relieved him of his services.”
“Then you would not object if I wished to play?”
“You are a pianist?”
“An exceptional one, if I may say so. Though I have not touched one for some time.”
Mr. Dupont took a moment to observe Evelyn. She was beautiful, obviously. And European. He had not seen a woman like her in months. All of the hired girls in town were Panamanian, which the transients were accustomed to seeing. But a white woman? In American Camp? She had probably caused quite the stir already. And now she was in his establishment, not Mr. Barrie’s. Confident, easy on the eyes, and talented… What in the world was she doing here? And alone! He could not have prayed for such a blessed opportunity.
He stroked his chin slowly, considering what a man in his position might do with said opportunity.
“Then by all means,” he said invitingly, “let me hear you.”
Pleased, Evelyn rose and went to the grand instrument, her fingers itching to play. She sat once more upon the bench and glanced lovingly over the keys.
“Do you have a request, Mr. Dupont?”
Considerate, too. Mr. Dupont lifted his eyes heavenward and breathed his thanks.
“Give us something lively, Miss Brennan,” he told her.
Evelyn nodded in acquiescence, oblivious to the man’s thoughts.
“All right, then.”
She pressed a few notes, then smiled to herself and led into a modern ragtime tune. She had never played contemporary music when her father was alive, for he was a lover of all things classical; but after his death, she had discovered contemporary music to be most diverting. In New York, when the Flynns were at port and Evelyn found herself spending long days alone in their house, she would send Beatrice on missions to find the latest and wildest melodies available. The dutiful servant would return with pages of music and Evelyn would spend hours upon hours bringing them to life. It brought her happiness, for it bore no correlation at all to what she had once loved and lost.
Mr. Dupont listened rapturously, while the far wall curtain parted slightly to reveal a sliver of his wife’s face. He took notice of the shifting fabric and flitted his eyes in her direction. She was regarding the girl at the piano, one brow lifted inquisitively.
Indeed, it had been a long time since either of the Duponts had encountered such a face. And how convenient that she had talent, as well. What, in God’s name, was she doing here? Seeking occupation?
Cherie looked at her husband, and Mr. Dupont dipped his head. Oh yes, they would find work for Evelyn Brennan. Fortune had turned its fickle gaze from Mr. Barrie and smiled upon them. They would be fools not to take advantage of this fateful gift.
Evelyn played on, oblivious to the goings-on within the minds of those around her. Hunger had lured her, the piano had entrapped her, and she would not return to camp anytime soon.
Mr. Dupont would see to that.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lucius raked his fingers through his hair. His forehead was hot, and the hair just flopped right back into place. It felt scratchy and uncomfortable, even painful against his skin.
It was so blasted warm in this saloon. How many bodies could possibly cram in
here? And what were they watching, anyway? All the other players had backed out. This business was just between Lucius Flynn and one other.
Brock Donnigan.
How many pints had Lucius consumed? He had stopped counting at eight. Maybe just one more… maybe that was all he needed to get back on track. This game… it was getting a little… what were the right words? Out of hand? Impossible. The cards were right there, clasped between his fingers. No they weren’t… they were falling to the floor.
Laughter. So loud it hurt his ears.
“You all right, Lucius?” that scalawag, Brock Donnigan, asked.
Of course he was all right. Not that Brock Donnigan cared anyway. Brock Donnigan was holding half of Lucius’ fortune. Holding. As if he might let go at any moment, just like Lucius let go of his cards.
Lucius slurred something of a reply. He was leaning over. The blasted little bits of paper were scattered all around his feet. So far away. No one else was of any help, damn them. He reached out, his fingers numb. Why couldn’t he feel his fingers?
God, it was so hot. He could barely breathe.
There was a thump. His head was coming in contact with something. It was his knee, and then it was the floor, for the chair gave way beneath him.
More laughter.
Not fair.
“Pick him up!” Brock Donnigan instructed, assuming his role of master and commander over all who would listen. Just as Evelyn had listened. Just as he had listened. Well, Lucius wasn’t about to listen anymore. No, sir! Who did Brock Donnigan think he was, anyway? Lucius wanted to know. Just who did the louse think he was? The King of England, that’s who! Yes. Lucius was sure of it.
But Brock Donnigan was not the King of England. No. He. Was. Not.
Someone wrapped his arms under Lucius and lifted him into his chair. But he still had to collect his cards! He looked at the floor again, but they were not there.
Oh. That’s right. He had picked them up.
He squinted to see the numbers and symbols, his vision slightly blurred. What was it about cards? It didn’t matter how many times you turned them around. Half of them were always upside-down.
Just like his fortune.
His fortune! Not just his fortune, but Evelyn’s fortune! Damn it. He had to get it all back. Somehow. But how? And how much of some? A little? A lot? Aha! Some more. If he just put some more on the table, Brock would think he had a great hand. Never mind half of it was upside-down. The faces were good. That was all that mattered. Two jacks. Three aces. Full house. Just like this saloon.
Take that, Brock Donnigan.
Brock wasn’t a theatrical sort of person. He didn’t waste time raising hopes, then dashing them. Not in poker, anyway. Women were a different story, but women were also more entertaining than Lucius Flynn. All Brock wanted from Lucius was… well, everything. And he wanted it as quickly as he could take it.
He fanned his cards onto the table.
Three kings. A four. A deuce.
Deuces wild.
Lucius watched in confusion as Brock cleared the table once again. More money. More money lost. But how? Lucius didn’t understand what was going on.
But everyone else did.
Lucius Flynn’s luck had finally run out.
* * *
Back at camp, Adele sat up inside the tent, her eyes and cheeks stiff from dry tears. She heard her son whimpering, and recognized the sound right away. He was tired, as was she. Together, they could sleep away the rest of this horrible day.
She pinched her cheeks and smoothed her hair, then called to Josephine. The girl emerged a moment later.
“Dearest,” Adele spoke, “how is the child?”
Josephine had recognized the signs, too. Bartholomew was finally calming down, betraying his readiness for rest.
Josephine nodded to convey her thoughts. Now was a good time for the child to be with his mother, and Adele felt strong enough now to face him. More than that, she felt desperate to look upon his little face, to see pieces and visions of the man with whom she had created him.
“Bring him to me,” she requested.
Bartie stumbled into the tent and threw himself into his mother’s arms. Adele cradled him as fresh, hot tears boiled behind her eyes. She kissed the tip of his forehead, her heart swelling with the need with which the child clung to her. At this moment, she needed him as well, needed the reassurance that all was not lost, that she was not as alone as she felt with Stephen gone. The child sensed her agony, wondered where his father was and why he did not come to comfort her.
“It’s all right now, darling,” Adele cooed softly into his ear. “Mummy’s here.” She looked at Josephine and thanked her, which the maid received as a polite dismissal and removed herself from the scene.
When she stepped away from the tent, Josephine surveyed the camp. A pot of beans boiled over the fire. Samuel sat beneath the shade of the nearest palm tree, sharpening a knife. A few tents over, a couple of men talked about their sweethearts back home. In the distance, a handful of boys shouted at one another to pass the ball. No one was present here except Josephine and Samuel, and for the first time that day, silence fell between their tents.
Josephine turned from the westward moving sun and gazed towards town. The pale canvas tents and distant whitewashed buildings gleamed in the daylight, forcing her to squint against the brightness. People moved about like shadows, and she hoped two of them might be Lucius and Evelyn, returning from their separate ventures. The pair had been gone some hours, longer than either had been gone since they had arrived at camp. It was preferable they had found one another in the midst of their search for entertainment, and it was not altogether unlikely. But there was still a chance Evelyn was alone, and if not for her age and gender, Josephine would have taken advantage of her freedom by searching her out and bringing her home. She had felt uneasy letting her leave, and she had felt uneasy since.
Samuel watched as Josephine looked for the missing pair. He followed her gaze, faintly hoping that she saw them emerging through the constant flow of bodies that came and went from American Camp.
None of the faces, however, belonged to Evelyn or Lucius.
Samuel sighed in disappointment. He was worried about them, yes; yet he had resigned himself to his current predicament, one he shared with Josephine.
“Ain’t nothing we can do, sweetheart,” he told her, responding to the concerned look upon her face. “You can’t go off by yourself, and I can’t leave you and the others here alone. We jest have to wait, you and I.”
Josephine nodded, though the word was unsettling. Wait. Wait for what? For either of them to return? How long should they wait if Evelyn and Lucius did not return?
Josephine went to Samuel and sat beside him. For a little while, she watched and listened as he scraped the edge of his knife, again and again, until she leaned her head back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes.
She would wait until their return, or until word arrived. But if word came first, she knew what she must do.
She must go looking.
* * *
He started her off with a glass of wine. Just one glass. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.
Yet still, she regarded him as though he had lost his mind. She had barely finished the song, had not even left the piano, and she had certainly not placed an order. How could she, when Mr. Dupont was busy acting suspicious one moment and indulgent the next? She did not like the way he looked at her, same as how other men looked at her, but with something more. There was the typical hunger, the apparent desperation, but there was something else altogether. Something she could not quite define.
“I don’t recall ordering a glass of wine, Mr. Dupont,” she told him, peering out from beneath her eyebrows.
He waved his own glass through the air.
“It is my treat, Miss Brennan. My treat. As a reward for your splendid performance.” He lifted his wine. “Here’s to you, my dear.”
Hesitantly, she joined him in t
aking a sip. She had not tasted wine in some time, but this particular vintage tasted significantly more potent than any she had tasted before. The strength of its acidity and bitterness caused her to wince, as the drink made its slow, burning way into the pit of her empty stomach.
When she had recovered, she looked at Mr. Dupont with watering eyes.
“You like it?” he wondered.
“It’s strong.”
He laughed.
“Like a kick in the face, isn’t it?”
These Americans had an interesting way with words.
“I wouldn’t know,” Evelyn replied.
Mr. Dupont tilted his glass for another sip, and as Evelyn had no desire to appear rude, she followed his example.
She coughed this time, but as the wine burned down her throat and through her chest, it did not bother her as much as the first sip. She immediately chased it down with another, as the bitterness created something of a film across her palate, and with each taste, the wine seemed to become more smooth and drinkable.
“You are from Ireland,” Mr. Dupont said.
Evelyn nodded.
“How keen of you to observe,” she replied, tipping back her glass.
Mr. Dupont chuckled. This girl was saucy.
“The potato blight chase you off?” he asked.
“Top marks.”
Mr. Dupont glanced over Evelyn’s fine clothes, the pearls in her ears, the polished boots on her feet.
“Somehow,” he mused, “you don’t strike me as the starving type.”
She glowered at him.
“When your country people are dying, Mr. Dupont,” she began, “you are affected, whether you are privileged or not. Money could not save the potatoes, and without the potatoes, my people have nothing. I saw the faces of the starving. Even now, they remain with me.”
Mr. Dupont clicked his tongue. It was a touching speech, to which he raised his glass.
“Then here’s to you, Miss Brennan. May Fate continue to smile upon you.”
“And you, Mr. Dupont,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
He scoffed.
“Fate has withheld the hand of bounty from me for many years,” he told her. “Yet somehow, when I look at you, Miss Brennan, I feel as though a transformation is coming. There is change in the air. You are a survivor, and perhaps your good fortune will find favor with me and my establishment.”
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 31
