The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  She found him pacing before the unlit fireplace. He stopped when he saw her, took a stance and said, “I realize nothing I can say will excuse my rash behavior. Ordinarily I'm not much of a drinker, but I fear I overstepped my tolerance in order to get up my courage. For that and for the embarrassment I caused you, I'm abjectly sorry. I don't suppose you'll care to see me again?"

  "You are correct,” she told him. “I accept your apology, but I do believe our association must come to an end."

  He sighed. “Is it too much to hope you will remember that I am always your friend? If you ever have need of anything I might do for you, please contact me. I will do my utmost to be of help."

  About to shake her head, Monique paused. Though she didn't foresee a need for one, he was a lawyer. “I presume you refer to legal matters,” she said. “It is thoughtful of you to offer your assistance should I need it. Thank you. I will remember.” She offered her hand.

  He pressed and released it. “I shall never forget you,” he told her.

  * * * *

  A week later, they left the Whaley House in a carriage escorted by two of Don Fernando's vaqueros. When Fernando met them at the gate of the Martinez Rancho, he swept his hat from his head to welcome them.

  "My house is your house,” he told Monique as he helped her from the carriage in front of his sprawling adobe hacienda.

  He was as good as his word. She met his sisters and his mother—his father was dead—and enjoyed the spicy evening meal in the company of the women, while the men ate separately. After supper, Don Fernando led her to a courtyard, where a white-haired man sat beneath an apple tree as gnarled as himself.

  "This is my grandfather, Don Esteban,” Fernando told her.

  The old man rose and, leaning on his cane, bowed to her. “You have come a great distance,” he said. “From New Orleans, my grandson tells me."

  She nodded, noting that Fernando had inherited his grandfather's dark handsomeness.

  "Once I journeyed to the City of Mexico,” Don Esteban said, “to gather men and arms to fight the gringos here in Alta California. I failed, but I have never regretted the journey. All of us must make a great journey at least once in our lives, and whether we find what we seek matters little. Mexico. Ah, truly the greatest city in the western world. The splendors. The cathedral. The multitudes of people. The women.” He closed his eyes as though seeing once more the glory of his youth.

  Leaving Don Esteban to his dreams, Fernando strolled with her through the courtyard. “My father once told me,” he said, “that there was an American girl, the great love of my grandfather's youth. The old gentleman never talks of her, but I think she lives on in his dreams."

  Monique smiled. “Your grandfather is a handsome man."

  "All the Martinez men are well-favored,” Fernando said.

  She glanced at him, expecting him to be smiling, mocking his boastfulness. He wasn't.

  "We're good horsemen, as well,” he added. “In his day, my grandfather was the best in all of California. They say I take after him."

  Monique could think of nothing other to say than, “I understand there'll be horse racing at the fandango.” She knew the celebration was to begin the following day.

  "Racing and more. You shall see."

  All the next day, families rode into the rancho, some having journeyed from as far away as Los Angeles. After supper, colored lanterns were lit in a glade behind the house and the singing and dancing began. Monique was dazzled by the brightly hued dresses of the women and entranced by the music of the guitars as she danced with a succession of courtly, admiring men.

  The following day, the caballeros competed in feats of racing and roping. Fernando was right, Monique admitted. He did seem to have been born to ride.

  Late in the afternoon, the guests gathered at the edges of a field for the final contest.

  "Is this another race?” Philippe asked her somewhat wearily. “If it is, I'll bet on Don Fernando."

  "I don't know exactly what is it, but he especially wanted me to watch,” Monique told him.

  A vaquero, holding a cock cradled in one arm, rode to a hole that had been scooped in the ground. Placing the cock in the hole, he covered it until only the head showed.

  Monique frowned. “What on earth?"

  Don Fernando galloped to the far end of the field, where he swung his horse about. Spurring the animal, he dashed toward the buried cock, at the last moment leaning from the saddle to grasp its neck and pull it squawking from the ground. He paraded in front of the spectators, holding the bird aloft in one hand. The cock's head flopped to one side and Monique could see that its neck was nearly severed from its body.

  She covered her eyes with her hands until she heard him ride away. When she uncovered her eyes, she stared at Philippe.

  He shrugged. “No doubt an old Spanish custom."

  She could find nothing to say.

  The next day they set out to return to San Francisco with Don Fernando escorting them. As they neared the city, a mule cart blocked their way, and Don Fernando rode ahead, shouting at the driver in Spanish.

  "What did he say?” she asked.

  "I believe he cast doubt on the man's parentage,” Philippe told her.

  The mule driver shouted back in the same language. Don Fernando raised his quirt and struck him across the face, and, as the driver raised his arm to defend himself, Fernando struck him again, knocking him from the cart to the ground. The don shouted orders to a vaquero, who rode forward and grasped the mule's reins to lead the animal and cart from the trail.

  Don Fernando left them at the Whaley House, sweeping his hat from his head and bowing. “Vaya con Dios,” he said.

  Later, at supper, Philippe waited until the end of the meal to ask, “What do you think of Don Fernando?"

  "He's gallant and charming,” she said, “and a terrible brute. If I married him, I'd be a servant all over again, a servant in my own house. I don't intend to serve others ever again. I'm afraid you'll have to cross Don Fernando Martinez from your list of eligible men."

  He nodded. “I already have. But there's still William Rogerson. He seems pleasant enough."

  "He's most pleasant, though rather an unfortunate man. He told me he was one of the first to stake a claim near the original gold strike at Sutter's Mill."

  "I expect that would make him a rich man."

  "Perhaps it would have, but some easterners jumped his claim, he told me. Later he managed to buy some of the best commercial property in San Francisco, but the bankers waited until his insurance lapsed and burned his buildings to the ground so he had to sell out at a loss."

  Philippe raised an eyebrow. “A distressing set of circumstances, if true."

  "Now he has a mining claim in Nevada's Washoe country. The mine is rich in gold, according to the assay report. He only needs a thousand dollars to develop it, but, alas—"

  Philippe cut in. “Alas, he doesn't have the money. Did he intend to try to borrow it from me?” At her nod, he snorted. “I can't abide these fortune hunters. That dashes my hopes for Mr. Rogerson as a candidate. Too bad, because he does resemble—” He broke off.

  "You can say it. He resembles Jeremy. He's big and has the same color hair and eyes. That's why I thought I might like him.” She sighed.

  "There are thousands of other men in San Francisco,” Philippe said. “We mustn't despair."

  * * * *

  That night Monique stood in the window of her room, holding Rowena as she looked down at the lights of the city. “I tried,” she told the purring cat.

  "I liked Ward Chambers because he was as gentle as Jeremy. I admired Don Fernando because he was manly like Jeremy. I thought I could care for Mr. Rogerson because he looked like Jeremy. But none of them are Jeremy. Of the thousands of San Francisco men Philippe talks of, none of them will be Jeremy."

  She laid her cheek against the car's soft fur. “Ward and Don Fernando and Mr. Rogerson aren't bad men, Rowena. I do admire Ward for his admission h
e made a fool of himself and embarrassed me. I wish it were possible to be friends, like he wished, but I don't believe we could have been. Except for Philippe, men always want more than that."

  She seated herself, the cat in her lap, petting her absently. “I love only Jeremy,” she whispered. “I love him so.” Tears filled her eyes and her body shook with sobs. She deposited Rowena on the floor and flung herself face down on the bed, weeping.

  After a time, Monique became aware of the cat's rough tongue licking her cheek. She sat up and dabbed at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief, her mind made up. There was only one thing for her to do.

  She rose and shed her nightgown, standing for a moment in front of the mirror, the light from behind her shadowing the curves of her body. Hurry, she told herself, before you lose your nerve.

  Dressing quickly, she settled a Chinese shawl over her shoulders and went to the door. “Wish me luck, Rowena, she said.

  The breeze was cool on her face as she hurried along the sidewalk, sobering her giddiness, but she refused to allow second thoughts. Doing her best to ignore the stares and occasional rude comments of passing men, she marched determinedly on. A drunken man approached her, but he was so unsteady on his feet that she easily avoided him.

  When she reached the International Hotel, she hesitated only a moment before setting foot on the steps leading to the lobby. On her way here, she'd formulated a plan, aware she didn't dare ask for Jeremy by name at the desk. Spotting a shoeshine boy sitting on the steps, she paused and dug a paper from her bag. On one side Philippe had listed the seven acceptable topics for male-female conversation. Folding it firmly in half, with the blank side outward, she held it out to the boy in one hand, while proffering a twenty-five cent piece in the other.

  "Will you leave this message at the desk for Mr. Jeremy Johnston?” she asked. The boy repeated the name, tipped his cap, took paper and coin and ran up the steps.

  Monique followed, passing the desk in time to see the hotel clerk thrust the paper into a slot with the number 239 printed underneath. Heart beating rapidly, she climbed the steps to the second floor where, after a short search, she found the room number. Putting her hand up to knock, she hesitated. What if Jeremy wasn't in? Worse, what if he was in, but not alone? What if she was with him? Her heart blazed with a sudden flare of jealousy and pain.

  Hearing someone approaching along the corridor behind her, Monique tapped at the door. No answer. After a moment, she knocked again. The door opened.

  "You're early,” Jeremy said, then realized who she was. “Mary!"

  Looking past him, she saw the room was empty, so she slipped past him before he had time to think about stopping her. Jeremy closed the door and tuned to face her.

  "Monique,” she said. “I've changed my name."

  As they stared at one another, she found she could hardly breathe. He wore black trousers and a white shirt open at the neck, as though he'd been dressing when she knocked. The look in his eyes made her knees weak.

  "Jeremy,” she said. “Oh, Jeremy, I've missed you so much. I couldn't stand not being with you any longer."

  He turned from her and crossed the room, paused by the sideboard and poured a drink from a decanter. Holding the glass of whiskey in front of him as he might hold a shield, he faced her again.

  "I presume Philippe's told you about Miss McAllister,” he said.

  She drew in her breath as though he'd slapped her, barely managing to nod.

  Jeremy swirled the liquid in his glass around and around, gazing into it as though looking for what to say next.

  She hurried to him, took the glass from his hand, set it on the sideboard and gazed up at him. “Oh. Jeremy,” she whispered.

  He pulled her to him, his lips meeting hers in a wonderfully demanding kiss. She responded eagerly, losing herself in his embrace. When he released, her she was so light-headed, she swayed for an instant.

  "I don't care what anyone might think,” she murmured. “I had to come. I had to."

  His eyes widened. “Do you mean...” he began. Swallowing, he tried again. “Are you telling me that you're ... Are you with..."

  The truth struck her. He thought she was carrying his child. He suspected she'd come to him for help because he'd left her to bear his child alone. She tamped down a sudden impulse to lie, to say that, yes, she was going to bear his child. If only she were!

  No, she could never lie to Jeremy.

  "It's not what you think, not that,” she said.

  His sigh of relief upset her. Couldn't he understand why she was here?

  "I came because I love you, Jeremy, and for no other reason. I've loved you from the first time we met. I'll always love you."

  He took her by the arms and, looking into her eyes, started to speak, hesitated, and shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes.

  He loves me. The certainty filled her heart.

  "We can go away together,” she told him. “Tomorrow. Tonight. Just the two of us ... we don't need other people. We'll be together like we were on the Columbia for always. We love each other. Nothing else is important. What does anything else matter when we have each other?” For a moment he stared over her head, as though picturing them together in his mind. “We could,” he said softly. “By God, we could."

  "You and me, just the two of us.” Her heart hammered so hard in her chest that, for a moment, she didn't hear the knocking.

  He glanced at the door, then back at her, and frowned. He released her, saying, “It must be Jonas McAllister. My God, he can't find you here.” Jeremy looked wildly about him. There was only the single room, no place to hide. “Behind the door,” he told her.

  "Why do I need to hide? If we—"

  He cut her off by pulling her across the room and shoving her against the wall behind the door before opening it and stepping forward, blocking passage to the room. She could see Jeremy through the crack, but not who had knocked.

  "Jonas.” Jeremy's hand reached out, and Monique saw Jonas’ hand shake it.

  "You're late, Jeremy. It's not like you.” Jonas McAllister's voice was deep and gruff.

  "I was delayed."

  She realized then that Jeremy was not going to reveal her presence, to acknowledge her, to tell Jonas that the wedding was off. Well, perhaps it wasn't the right moment.

  "Laura and I have been waiting in the lobby for the last ten minutes.” Jonas paused. “Are you all right, my boy? You look a bit peaked."

  "No, no, I'm fine."

  "Good. I'll come in and wait for you here."

  Monique straightened her shoulders, raising her chin to face her discovery.

  "No!” Jeremy's word was a near shout. He lowered the volume to add, “You shouldn't leave Laura downstairs by herself."

  "Perhaps you're right,” Jonas said. “You'll be with us in a few minutes?"

  Before Jeremy could respond, from the corridor a woman's voice asked, “Father, have you found him?"

  Laura!

  "He's almost ready."

  Monique's hand clutched nervously at the top of her gown. Since both Laura and her father were here, why didn't Jeremy take this chance to explain, to tell them he loved another and was going away with her?

  "Jeremy,” Laura said. Monique caught the scent of lilies-of-the-valley.

  He stepped forward, as though to put his arms around Laura. Monique pressed her hand to her breasts as pain twisted inside her. No matter what he'd told her tonight, Jeremy had no intention of acknowledging her presence. Had no intention of eloping with her. He wanted Laura, not her. Did he love Laura?

  Rage flared through Monique. Damn him! She wouldn't let him do this to her. Her hand found the top button of her gown and undid it.

  Jeremy stepped back, still blocking the doorway, but far enough into the room he could glance at her. She smiled and undid the next button and the next. He stared. She shrugged the top of the gown from her shoulders, letting it fall. Since she wore nothing underneath, her bare breasts were exposed. His face re
ddened and he looked away.

  "Jeremy, what's wrong?” Laura asked. “Shall we come in and wait for you?"

  After a quick glance at Monique, who stared defiantly back at him, he said, “Let me talk to your father for a moment, Laura. Please wait for us down the hall."

  Laura started to protest, then her father spoke to her, and Monique heard her walk away. Jeremy said a few words to Jonas in so low a tone Monique couldn't make them out.

  "The flux?” Jonas asked. “I suspected something was amiss."

  "Will you give my regards to the Bowers? And will you explain to Laura?"

  "Of course I shall. I'd suggest you take paregoric. Works for me every time."

  "I will.” Jeremy quickly closed the door. Reaching for Monique, he gripped her shoulders, shaking her. “Get dressed,” he growled. “Get dressed now."

  He'd changed into a different man, no longer the Jeremy of a few minutes before. Monique looked away as she redressed herself. When she finished, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, looking both ways. “It’ safe for you to leave now,” he said, coming back inside to hand her the Chinese shawl she'd worn. “Don't forget this."

  The anger drained from Monique, leaving her trembling. “Can't we—” she began

  "No. I'll admit you tempted me. You always were a temptress, weren't you?"

  Was he thinking of Captain Nyland? Why did he continually misunderstand?

  "Jeremy,” she whispered, “I—"

  "No,” he repeated. “No, to whatever you mean to say.” He crossed his arms, refusing to meet her gaze. “I intend to marry Miss McAllister as soon as her mother returns from Europe."

  Fury stifled Monique's breath. She raised her hand and slapped him as hard as she could. Jeremy's head jerked to one side, but otherwise he didn't move. She ran past him into the corridor and out of the hotel.

  When, out of breath and heartsick, she reached her own room, she found Philippe emptying her bureau drawers.

  "What are you doing?” she asked, bewildered. “Are you packing?"

  "There's been a change of plans,” he said. “We leave for the north tonight."