“I’ve mentioned my half-sister, Irene, to you. I have practically raised her, our parents dying when she was but fourteen years old. I was all she had in the world. And I still am.”
He drew a deep breath and said, “Irene became involved with a man some months ago. I did not discover this liaison until it was too late. You see, the man is married. He lied to Irene, seduced her, and now she is with child.”
Byrony stared at him. She heard the anguish in his voice, realized his deep love for his half-sister. “I’m sorry, Ira. Your poor sister.”
“You are my wife now, Byrony. I know you are frightened of me as a husband, of my making demands on you. How could it be otherwise? Raised by a maiden aunt who distrusted every man, and a father who is a brutal tyrant. I will not force myself on you, I swear it. But the favor I ask will bind me to you, earn my unending gratitude to the day I die. I ask, Byrony, that Irene’s child be yours, that you save my poor sister from a scandal that would destroy not only her but also both of us. I ask that you pretend pregnancy, then, after the child’s birth, treat it as your own.”
“So,” she said quietly, “the only reason for our marriage is to save your sister.”
“Yes.”
Freedom from a man’s demands. Freedom to be myself, to remain untouched. “How could this be done, Ira?”
How very reasonable and logical she sounded. She sensed the relief in him. “I own a home in Sacramento. I would escort you and Irene there as soon as we reach San Francisco. You will remain there for seven or so months, then return home. I fear you will be a bit lonely and confined during that time, but I can see no other alternative. No one must know that it is Irene who carries the child and not you.”
“I don’t know. It seems outrageous, impossible.”
“I also fear for Irene’s life,” he said. “She is writhing in guilt. I fear she might try to kill herself.”
Byrony looked out over the still water. The half-moon cast silver shadows over the gently cresting waves. Again, was there really any choice for her? Why had he waited until after they were married to tell her of this? It was not important, not really, and she had no choice. “You saved me from a wretched existence with my father,” she said finally. “I will do this for you and Irene. The money you are sending him each month will protect my mother from his rages. Yes, I owe you a great deal now, Ira.” She thrust her hand toward him and he clasped it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Brent ruffled Celeste’s soft black curls and kissed her lightly on her uptilted nose.
“Perhaps you remember my name now, mon amour?”
Before he rolled onto his back and pillowed his head on his arms, he gave her a glittering smile and said, “I know who you are, Celeste.”
He felt her fingers glide over his chest, then downward. “Celeste give you everything, yes? Who is this other grisette whose name you bleat at me?”
“Do French girls remember everything?” He tensed when her fingers closed over him.
“I think it is not at all polite what you did.”
“Forget it. She is nothing to me, a dream, a memory. Nothing.”
“Ha! A dream that lives in your mind is not a nothing. But Celeste will make you forget, yes?”
“In an hour, perhaps,” he said, his voice dry. “I am only a man, Celeste. Give me a while to garner my strength.”
Brent still couldn’t believe that he’d shouted her name at the height of his passion. Why? She was only a vague memory, a soft phantom. He hadn’t lied. She likely wasn’t the grisette Celeste painted her, but nonetheless, she would sell herself in any case. To a rich man, a foolish rich man who wanted a beautiful young wife. His jaw seemed to lock until the tension made him wince. He’d pictured an old man’s hands stroking her. “Damn all women to hell,” he said deep in his throat. Was it his fate in life to be drawn to women like Laurel? At least he’d learned over the past nine years to leave them before they could hurt him. Furious with himself, he turned to Celeste and began to return the deep caresses.
“Ah,” she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers. “You are not just a man, Brent. You do such nice things.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do.”
Maggie stood in the center of the opulent room, her gentleman’s receiving room she called it. Maggie’s was nearly completed, as was the Wild Star. Everything looked grand. She’d had the girls’ bedrooms done first, and the gentlemen hadn’t minded at all the smell of paint or the hazardous piles of lumber stacked about.
She frowned suddenly, remembering that Lisette was still suffering from violent cramps. She must ask Saint Morris to examine the girl. In fact, her thinking continued, though she was careful to ensure that the men who paid the exorbitant price to spend the night in her establishment were as clean as possible, it wouldn’t hurt to have Saint give the girls monthly examinations. She wanted no syphilis in her house.
She walked the length of the sitting room to the large black piano. She lovingly ran her fingers over the smooth finish, then sat down and began to strike a few chords.
Major chords. Only happy sounds. I’m twenty-seven years old, Maggie thought, and I’m going to be very rich and I’ll owe it to no one except myself. She smiled at the thought of her stern-faced father, a blacksmith, stepping into her establishment. Self-righteous prig. Horny demanding bastard. Her fingers suddenly settled on a minor chord. Her poor mother, every year of her married life spent pregnant until she’d had the good sense to die, leaving nine children. Maggie had stayed until her father had remarried. She’d then willingly sold her virginity to a rich tobacco planter from Virginia. The money had gotten her as far as Mississippi, where she’d spent seven years of her life as a man’s mistress. He’d beaten her only rarely, given her gifts equally as rarely, and hadn’t made her pregnant. When she’d read about gold being discovered in California, she’d known that was where she was going, where she belonged. She’d saved nearly every cent Thomas Currson had grudgingly paid her, and she traveled to San Francisco in style. Now I’m a businesswoman, she thought, her fingers moving smoothly to a lighthearted tune. I’ll never be a rich man’s mistress again.
Maggie looked up to see Brent standing quietly watching her. She nodded and placed her hands in her lap.
“Don’t stop, Maggie. You play very well.”
She laughed self-consciously and quickly rose from the stool. “I haven’t touched a piano in a long time, too long a time. My mother played beautifully, until—well, until she didn’t have the energy.”
“She was ill, your mother?”
Maggie gave a bitter laugh. “Ill? Yes, I guess you could say that. Now, Brent, what can I do for you? Have you come to admire?”
How closemouthed she was about her past. But it was an unwritten rule of the West. Everyone was entitled to begin again, to bury his past. Just like you, Hammond. “I’ve never seen such a fancy brothel,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’ve got to go to Sacramento to buy the brass railing for the mahogany bar. Can you believe there’s none to be had in San Francisco?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No. When will you leave?”
“Toward the end of the week. It shouldn’t take me more than three or so days. Then, Maggie, we’ll open, officially.”
The pleasure in his voice warmed her. She had never in her life really liked, much less trusted, a man, until she’d met Brent. He was, objectively, a beautiful man, virile as hell, if her girls were to be believed, but she didn’t want his body. She wanted his friendship. She wanted to be part of his dream. She’d seen the loneliness in him that first evening she’d met him in her brothel. The emptiness. He’d opened up to her, and she’d known she was the only person he’d really spoken to. That made her special to him. They complemented each other. A madam and a gambler. She giggled. “Yes,” she said, “officially. James Cora will gnash his teeth in envy.”
“Just so long as Belle doesn’t come in and tear the plac
e down.”
“Doubtful. James and Belle are experiencing one of their marvelous disagreements at the moment. They’re not speaking. Incidentally, I’ve found you a bartender. He’s from New York, more honest than not, and can handle any scum who come in to make trouble.”
“Thank God,” Brent said. “What’s his name? How did you meet him?”
“It was Lucienne who bagged him, actually. His name, if you can believe this, is Percival Smith. He’s bigger than you, Brent, and built like a wine cask.”
“Send him over and we’ll strike a deal.” Brent paused, searching Maggie’s face. “We’ll make a go of it, Maggie, I swear it.”
“I know, Brent. I knew we were a winning team five minutes after I met you.” She felt a knot form in her throat and quickly said, lightly, “When are we going to have another game of chess?”
“Whenever you want to taste humiliation, you’ve got it, lady.”
They grinned at each other, in perfect accord.
“You never told me, Maggie, who taught you.”
Her eyes clouded, but just for a moment. “It was just someone I knew, a long time ago,” she said. Thomas Currson had taught her both poker and chess. He’d had his uses.
She shook her head at him and smiled. “You know, I never asked you why you’re calling the saloon Wild Star. My name, Maggie’s, is pretty straightforward, but Wild Star?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh at me,” he said.
She made a sign of a cross over her breast. “I promise.”
“It’s kind of silly, I guess, but I was riding out of Denver, at night, and there was this bright star overhead. I just kept riding toward it, thinking that it was like me in a way, always moving, never staying in the same place long, free, if you will, and wild. I decided then if I ever settled in one place, I’d harness that star, but keep the illusion that it was still free, still moving, still wild.”
“That’s not silly at all,” she said after a moment. “You’re a romantic, Brent, and that’s a good thing for a man to be.”
“And a poet, no doubt.”
“Perhaps,” Maggie said. “Now, I can see you’re itching to be off. Will you do me a favor? Could you ask Saint to come over? Lisette isn’t feeling too well.”
“Sure thing. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Just woman problems, that’s all.”
“Mysterious,” he said, giving her a wicked look.
“You men are so damned lucky,” Maggie said.
“Not always. Celeste just got mysterious on me.”
He cocked his hat at her and strode from the stiflingly glorious parlor. Maggie loved yellow. He felt like he’d stepped into a giant daffodil. At least it was better than Belle Cora’s garish and tasteless gold-and-red whorehouse.
“It’s not at all what I expected,” Byrony said to her new half-sister. “It’s so barren, but the hills are beautiful and the city is so vibrant.”
“Yes, that’s true. But we love San Francisco. And there are so many changes. Always changes.”
Byrony set down her teacup and looked about the salon. “You’ve built a lovely house, Ira. Very impressive.”
“Thank you, my dear. Do you like your room?”
“I’d be crazy and blind not to! Did you decorate it, Irene?”
“No, Ira did, before he left for San Diego. He wanted everything to be perfect for you.”
A silent black woman gently removed the tea service. “Thank you, Eileen,” Byrony said.
Eileen nodded, her eyes meeting Byrony’s for a brief moment.
Byrony yawned. “Oh dear,” she said, “please excuse me. I suppose I’m tired. It certainly isn’t the company.”
“Why don’t you rest until dinner, my dear? I’ll escort you to your room.”
“I should like that,” Byrony said, and rose.
Irene rose also. She gave Byrony a brief hug and said, “Thank you.”
Ira left her at her door. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed, my dear. Eileen will call you at seven. We dine normally at eight o’clock.”
She nodded, and slipped into her new bedroom. She stood for a moment in the center of the room. Her bedroom at Aunt Ida’s had been as fussy as her aunt was, crammed with all the bric-a-brac that wouldn’t fit into the other rooms. Her bedroom in San Diego had been small, bare, and cold. But not this room. She drew a deep, pleased breath. Large, airy, with huge bow windows facing south to sparsely housed hills. The walls were painted cream and all the furnishings were a pale blue. There were no things cluttering any surface. It was her room and it would be she who made it personal. The bed was covered with a pale blue-and-white counterpane.
I’m happy, she thought suddenly. I’m starting a new life. I am in control of it. Well, not really, she quickly amended to herself, her smile fading. She was now, she supposed, officially pregnant. She remembered Irene’s soft thank-you. She was relieved. She’d wanted no tears, no apologies, no scenes. How different Irene was from Ira. Ira, fair and slender as an angel, and Irene, small, dusky-complexioned, with deep brown eyes. She seemed somewhat reticent, perhaps shy, but Byrony guessed that the seven months they would spend together would bring about a better understanding of their respective characters.
Byrony stepped to the windows and drew back the heavy cream-colored draperies. She hoped she’d be able to see San Francisco before Ira took them to Sacramento. She’d felt the stirring in her blood when they had arrived, docking at the Clay Street wharf. Life, she thought, that’s what San Francisco has, boisterous wild young life. Ira had laughingly told her that he was an old man here, where the average age was well under thirty.
The gambler is here, she thought, and felt a peculiar rush of excitement. But it is too late. I am a married lady. It is too late.
“Fool,” she said to herself. “You’re behaving like a child, weaving a patched dream from scraps of memory. He’s just a man, a man like all the others.”
She dropped the draperies over the windows and walked slowly to her bed. She slipped off her shoes and lay on her back, staring up at the cream-painted ceiling. She wanted desperately to recapture that noble image of herself she’d nourished when she’d agreed to Ira’s plea, but there was nothing inside her save a growing feeling of despair and disbelief. She would become a mother in the eyes of the world. Irene’s child would be called hers. How would they all act? How would she feel then, living this lie? A life of lies.
There was a soft knock on her bedroom door, and Ira’s quiet voice calling, “Byrony.”
She quickly eased off the bed and straightened her clothes. “Come in.”
Ira took in her pale face. “Are you very fatigued, my dear?”
She managed a wan smile. “Perhaps, just a bit.”
He closed the door behind him and walked toward her. “Byrony,” he said, closing his hands over her shoulders, “you’ve been thinking, haven’t you? Thinking of all the complications, indeed, the consequences of your decision?”
She closed her eyes a moment, wondering how he could have known, but it didn’t occur to her to lie. “Yes, I have. It seems impossible to me now, all of it.”
Very gently he drew her into his arms. She’d never been held by a man before, and it felt odd, for a man was unyielding, so much stronger than she, and for an instant she felt fear rip through her. He let her go. “Tell me what seems impossible. We will talk of it. I do not want you to be unhappy.”
“You’re kind, Ira. I suppose I am just homesick.”
“Well, perhaps you miss your mother, but nothing else. And you only really knew her for what, Byrony? Six, seven months?”
She nodded.
“You now have a home, my dear, your own home. You are secure, and you are cared for. The child will, I devoutly pray, add to all of our happiness.” He paused a moment, then continued quietly, “If, in the future, you wish for a child, you will tell me. You are performing a great deed for my sister and me. I never wish you to have lasting regrets about your de
cision. Never.”
“I hope you are right,” she said. Her stomach growled suddenly.
“I’m just as hungry,” he said, grinning down at her. “Come now, let’s have dinner. Irene isn’t feeling too well so she is dining in her room. Tomorrow you and I will visit a very fancy clothier. You will need some new gowns. Friday we will leave for Sacramento. I fancy,” he continued thoughtfully as he walked beside her into the dining room, “that you look utterly exquisite in all shades of blue. We will see what Monsieur David can provide.”
FIVE
The April afternoon was sunny and cool. The wind blew stiff on the bay, and Byrony clamped her hand on her bonnet while she watched her brand-new trunk carried on board the Scarlet Queen. She smiled in delight, thinking of all the new clothes and underthings that were inside, so many things, and all of the finest fabrics. She felt like a spoiled princess. She felt Ira’s hand on her arm and turned the brilliant smile to him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“You—well, all the new things you bought me, Ira. I’ve never had such—Well, anyway, thank you.”
“You are most welcome, my dear. Will you wear the sapphire-blue gown to dinner this evening?”
“Yes, certainly. Ira, the boat is so large and beautiful. It must rival the finest riverboats that ply the Mississippi.” She looked toward Irene and saw that the woman was looking pale. “Oh dear,” she said in a low voice, “I hope the trip won’t be too hard on her.”
“Why don’t I escort both of you to your cabin?”
Byrony nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. The bustle of the passengers, the frantic loading and unloading of other vessels, all the smells and sounds of the wharf made her feel so very alive.
“Captain O’Mally,” Ira said. “Good day to you, sir. I venture to say we’ll enjoy a smooth trip. Allow me to introduce my wife.”
“A pleasure, ma’am,” Captain O’Mally said. “Miss Butler,” he added, bowing slightly to Irene. “You’ve business in Sacramento, Mr. Butler?”