I thought he had a most unusual human face, one that inspired complete trust and confidence. I handed him the parcel without another word, and he, having understood me perfectly, was on his way with alacrity.
My sleep remained troubled. For, despite the drastic change I had set in motion, a quick bound from one man to another, I continued to have the same terrifying dream. Over and over, I saw Drake lying at my feet, stone dead. The dream's persistence only strengthened my resolve to continue with his dismissal. However, as dictated by my siren nature, I could hardly bear the pain of releasing one victim without entangling another in my net. Despite some misgivings about Nicholas, I began to think up enjoyable ways to lure and fascinate him.
Chapter Fifteen
The Witness
December 1, 1900
Alta, Wyoming
Widow Brighton thought she had never seen anyone quite so forlorn as Clare in her best blue bonnet and single strand of braided hair, walking down the road to meet with Drake and be married at the Scottish Presbyterian Church in Bulette.
The morning weather was brisk, with strong winds. Clare had trouble keeping on her bonnet, but she didn't look back.
At nine o'clock, Mrs. Brighton was consternated at the sight of her son walking through the gate, only an hour after Clare passed through it. She and Clare had planned the event with the idea that Nicholas would be safely out of the way, visiting an old school-friend who now lived in Corinthus.
“I was not expecting you back so early, Nicholas. Did your friend tire of your company?”
He looked at her with an odd expression. His emotion was actually guilt mixed with panic. He had visited his friend only briefly. Then he had spent the night with a brawny field-hand whose eye he had caught en route.
At dawn he had left the man's cabin hurriedly, his muscles still imprinted with their athletic consummation, his mouth still tasting of cock, and his conscience steeled with a resolve it would never happen again.
Surely his mother could not know—could she?
By way of a defensive maneuver, he uncharacteristically went on the attack. “Mother, why wasn't I told about Clare? I met Caleb coming back on the Bulette road. It appears there has been at a wedding at the church there. Clare's, no less!”
His mother turned her back and bustled about the kitchen while Nicholas sat in silence, waiting for an explanation that never came. As she served her son's breakfast, Caleb appeared at the kitchen door.
“So, is she married this time?” the Widow drily inquired of Caleb.
“Yes, ma’am, she certainly is.”
“How strange,” muttered Nicholas, with evident disconsolation. “Little Clare is married without her family attending. To Augustus Drake, of all people!” He threw down his napkin and moodily stalked off.
“You were there, Caleb?” Mrs. Brighton asked. “How nice. But why?”
Caleb's answer came from a carefully prepared script in which several points were omitted, including his following Drake’s movements for the past two days to make sure Clare's bridegroom did not slip through their hands again.
“I was in Bulette to see a cabin I have been considering leasing. I was going past the church and saw them go in. I remained at the back for the ceremony.”
“Was anyone else there?” was her next question. He wondered if the Widow was clairvoyant. After a pause, he said: “Well, aside from the two of them and myself in the back, there was only the parson and a witness.”
“Oh? Who was the witness?”
“Miss Vye, ma’am,” Caleb said reluctantly, keeping his eyes down.
“Miss Vye! You must be mistaken.”
“I am certain it was Miss Vye.”
“How very remarkable!”
Her visitor making no further comment, she went on to say, “The Browns claim she is a witch, but of course that is absurd. Whatever possessed her to have anything to do with Clare's wedding?”
Caleb wasn't about to divulge the confidential details of Miss Vye's request of him, which were to drive her in his van to the churchyard well in advance of the nuptials.
As Mrs. Brighton was waiting for an answer, he finally said, “When I got there, Miss Vye was walking through the graveyard looking at the old headstones. She often goes, as her grandmother and mother are buried there.”
“Yes? And then?”
“Then the parson was looking around for a witness, so he asked if she would oblige. She went up to the rails and signed the book. Clare thanked her warmly for her kindness.”
Caleb failed to mention that when Cassandra lifted her heavy black veil and looked Drake squarely in the eye, her former lover looked as though he might keel over.
“The witness was Miss Vye!” Mrs. Brighton muttered when she was alone again. “How very extraordinary!”
While Caleb believed, as he rode away, that he knew all the details of Clare's wedding, in point of fact he was not privy to one final nuance of the Bulette nuptials.
While Clare was signing her name to the registry, the groom saw his opportunity to fling at his former mistress a darkly triumphant look.
Cassandra smiled serenely, looking him directly in the eye. She then leaned over and whispered into his ear.
“It gives me great pleasure to see Clare become your wife, Curly. I truly hope what you feel tonight is pleasure and not regret. Believe me when I say it is for the best, and that what I did, I did for love of you.”
She bowed her head slightly and made a graceful exit, while he stared at her curvaceous backside with a mixture of outrage and confusion on his face.
As a result of Miss Vye's church appearance and her parting words, the bridegroom felt more defeated and frustrated after his wedding than ever before. What neither he nor Cassandra realized was that there had been a subtle change in his obsession. He was no longer in love with a siren. He now loved a woman who had given him up. Poor Curly Drake longed like a madman for the human prize he had lost.
Chapter Sixteen
Widow Brown Strikes Again
April 10, 1901
Alta, Wyoming
It was the first Sunday in April, and the violent patterns of spring had set into the mountain. Heavy snowstorms alternated with spring thaws, the waters ran fast, and still Nicholas Brighton remained at the Grange, with an occasional gallop over the hills to visit his “friend” in Corinthus.
Brighton's unexpected continuance at home instead of returning to San Francisco was being discussed from all possible angles.
The prevalent notion was Brighton had developed a mental illness that was impeding his normal progress as a man of property. After Clare's wedding, Nicholas seemed ever more inwardly inclined. Sometimes he would pass his neighbors and not see them. But they would see him all right, and what they saw was a young man who walked out alone and mumbled to himself. His bright image in the public eye was fading fast.
Nicholas was a young man of whom much had been expected, based on a history of excelling beyond his years. At twelve, he already had a reputation as a scholar and an artist. His early schooling was accelerated, and when he was only sixteen, he was sent East to matriculate at the College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, the alma mater of Thomas Jefferson.
In 1898, while visiting college friends in Wilmington, North Carolina, he observed an event that changed forever the direction of his life. A duly elected black city government in Wilmington was overthrown by whites, on the pretense of protecting the city from racial violence. It was a dark day for Reconstruction, and the impressions made on the young visitor were indelible. Nicholas carried back West with him an activist spirit and an abiding interest in minority causes.
Graduating from college when he was nineteen, he immediately left the Grange to make his own way in San Francisco. The vagaries of fate which started off Keats as a surgeon determined that this ascetic lad of the wilds should start his career in the incongruous gold trade. Nonetheless, Nicholas performed well at his trade and was highly regarded for his d
iligence and probity, virtues hard to come by in the bawdy port city of San Francisco. He had a competitive streak and thrived. Disciplined, kind, and thoughtful, handsome, slim, and aristocratic in appearance, he was sought after by both men and women. He was reluctant to respond to young women. He told himself his indifference was due to the fond memory of one beloved to him at home—his sweet cousin Clare.
Was his childhood affection for Clare keeping him home?
It was one theory bandied about at 10 a.m. on Sunday, when the usual customers had gathered between the white pillars of Fairwell's wide front porch for the monthly hair-cutting ritual.
The haircutting was performed with the coatless, shivering victim sitting on a porch chair and his friends gossiping around him. Every season the scene was the same, only the chair was moved a few feet closer to the house when the wind was stronger. To complain of the cold or to flinch while Fairwell told tall tales between abrupt scissor cuts was to be no native at all.
To notice the small stabs along the neck and under the ears would have been thought a gross breach of good manners. Fairwell did it all for nothing, and a bleeding head on Sunday afternoons was tantamount to a badge of honor among the natives.
As the neighbor closest to the Brighton ranch, Fairwell was expected to deliver the first remarks on young Brighton's odd behavior.
“A man doing well elsewhere would not be cooling his heels here for months at a time, unless something big is brewing. Nick has some project in his head.”
“Well, he cannot open a gold appraisal business here,” said Sam, who was the current victim in Fairwell’s chair. “There ain’t the need for it.”
Merchant Joe Harrison now put in his two cents’ worth: “I don’t see why he should have had those two heavy boxes sent home if he was going to leave. But what there is for him to do here, only the Lord in heaven knows. He was never any good at ranchin'. Brought a fair amount of fancy clothes home from Frisco. Don't know what he will do with 'em here. Not even my dandy son would dare show himself in such finery.”
“He says he wants to teach Injuns how to read,” offered Sam.
“It is good-hearted of the young man to be worried about plain folk,” said Del Bottomly, a sentiment underlined by a nod from his twin. “But I think he would be better off to mind his own business and stay like he is in San Francisco.”
All murmured agreement on this last point. So far, Nicholas Brighton’s enthusiasm for educating those who lacked opportunity had elicited no support. A man should be only a little ahead of his time, if he was to remain popular with his neighbors. But these were men so bound by old traditions and superstitions that at Christmas time they gave unmarried daughters gingerbread “husbands” to eat for good luck.
Nicholas was no fool, and he could see the questions in the men's faces whenever he encountered them. The simple truth was, he told himself, he had fallen out of love with his assaying profession and in love with his native land. Though he didn't know it, he was also being manipulated by a siren in human form.
As a child, Nicholas had stumbled over rocks and scraped his knees on Hatter's Field, stayed out all night under the stars camping with his father, studied his books, and penned his first poetry. His toys had been the flint knives and arrowheads which he found. His flowers were the pink, yellow, and purple wildflowers of the fields, and his animals were antelope, rabbits, elk, deer, and buffalo. As a young rancher, he had loved the winter's call of the wild, even when blinded by a blizzard that made him appear a wraith on horseback while herding cattle through the mountains toward the river.
What others hated about the arid hills, their vastness and bleak prospects, was what Nicholas loved best in the world. When he looked upon Hatter's Field, he felt glad that the wild grass grew in tufts that resisted all attempts at tillage. One day, after a long ride in the mountain, he descended into the valley and soon reached his home, where his mother was snapping dead leaves from window plants.
“Mother, I have decided against going back to San Francisco,” he said abruptly. “I have given up the business of gold assaying for good. I will stay here.”
“I wondered when your boxes arrived. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn't think you would like my plan.”
“What is your plan?”
He took a deep breath. “I am going to start a school close by, so I'll be able to walk to it. If you will allow it, I also intend to open a free night school here at the Grange. But I must study first and get properly qualified. If Abe Lincoln could learn how to be a lawyer by studying on his own, I should be able to learn how to be a schoolteacher.”
Nicholas felt relieved, but his heart sank as he looked at his mother and saw her mouth was set in a grim line. Still, his resolve held when she posed the first challenge.
“Will it be better than what you have been doing?”
“Not in the way you mean. To you it might seem worse. But I hate the gold business, Mother, and I want to do something worthy with my life. As an educator, I can make myself useful to the poor and ignorant, who need it most. I will teach them what nobody else has attempted, how to be a good, caring, tolerant citizen.”
“After all the trouble I have taken to give you a good education and a start in a profitable business, and now, when there is nothing left to do except to make money, you decide to be a poor man’s schoolmaster?” Her voice had risen to a high pitch.
“Yes, and with time,” he said with a stubborn set of his jaw, “I intend to educate local women, rich, poor, or Indian maid.”
“You astonish me, Nicholas Brighton. Fantasies will be your ruin.”
The expression on his face—hopelessness of being understood—was not to be confused with weakness of will. It had often been on her husband’s. Once again, thought Mrs. Brighton, she was at cross-purposes with a loved one. It seemed to be her fate.
The tense pause was broken by a tap at the door. Thomas Hawker appeared in his Sunday clothes, speaking while the door was still opening: “—and to think I should have had the bad luck to be there!”
“Please sit down, Thom. Tell us your news,” said Mrs. Brighton.
“There's a witch among us,” he said breathlessly.”The whole thing has made me shake like an aspen leaf. Do you think any harm to me will come of it, ma'am?”
“Do start at the very beginning, Thom,” said Nicholas, frowning at him.
“This morning I got my father to go with me to church. We always used to go together before he got the gout. It don’t keep him from dancin’ every chance he gets with Diane at the Plush Horse, though.”
Said Nicholas drily, “Boys will be boys.”
“Me old man is pretty near sixty years old. There was so many folks he had to shake hands with, I thought we would never git ourselves a pew. I likes to be down front and not too far from the communion rail. The Mayor don’t care because he don’t take communion. He says the wine tastes like the pastor’s hair oil and the wafer gets stuck in his windpipe. But I told him the service is in memory of the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, and he best show respect. Widow Brown tells him so every time she sees 'im, but he don't pay her no mind.”
“What happened?” asked Nicholas impatiently.
“There was just room for the two of us in the front pew. On the other side of the aisle was Captain Vye and his granddaughter. Miss Vye had her head bowed down, like she was prayin’.
“I seen the back of her neck was bare, with that red hair of hers coiled on top of her head. Her hat was dipped to one side, like them French women do. Then all of a sudden her hat fell off, and all her hair came tumbling down. And the next thing was, she screamed like she had been killed and fell over into the aisle!”
“Was she injured?” asked Nicholas intently.
The Widow narrowed her eyes at her son.”I have heard she is the type to put on a dramatic show for attention. Go on, Thomas,” she said.
“Well, then Pastor Dodge run down the aisle and picked Miss Vye up. T
here was a hatpin stuck straight out the back of her neck. We were that close, I could see the blood dripping. The pastor pulled it out, and she moaned, so I knowed she was still alive. Then she must have fainted again, because Pastor Dodge dismissed the congregation and carried her off out of the church, down the street straight to Doctor Huddleston.”
Nicholas’s hazel eyes were round and bright. “Who did this terrible thing?”
“Well, it was Widow Brown, and yet she don't say she is sorry she done it. But that’s not the most terrible thing yet.”
“How could it get any worse?” asked Nicholas. His mother repressed a sigh.
“After the pastor left with Miss Vye, Widow Brown stood in the aisle and talked to the congregation, like I'm talkin' to you now. She told us how Miss Vye is a witch and a whore of Satan. She said that she, Widow Brown, was a-tryin’ to save us all from our own per—perdition by puttin' a curse on the siren and scarin' her outa town. But that wasn't all of it. TheWidow told us that unless Miss Vye leaves this town pretty quick, there will be two deaths because of her. You could have knocked me over with a feather. When I got my legs back, I run home as fast as I could and I stayed there all day, worryin’ about whether sittin’ across from the witch could make me one of them two dead people. Then I decided to come over here and ask you. What do you think, Master Brighton? Is evil catching?”
Nicholas spoke sternly. “The only evil I see from your story is the harm inflicted on an innocent young woman. This is why there is a need to educate local people, Mother. Superstition can only be removed by human enlightenment.”
The Widow's response to this pompous pronouncement was a deep frown.
“Yer right. The country ought to look into it,” said Thomas piously, much relieved now Mr. Brighton had indicated he was in no danger. “Here is Fairwell a-coming.”
In came the cobbler-barber, bursting with the same story, though second-hand. “I wasn’t there myself, as I was doing my barbering all morning. I heard it was a proper curse the Widow laid on that woman this time—everythin' but names and dates as to who is gonna die as a result of the redhead's evil eye.”
The Siren's Tale Page 12
