SIX
Brent had taken only two steps when Ira’s voice rang out behind him. “Mr. Hammond.”
He turned slowly, a thick black brow arched upward.
“Won’t you join us for a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, do come, Hammond,” Ezra Lacy said.
He glanced briefly toward Byrony, but she was staring at her hands, folded in her lap.
“Thank you,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“You know my sister, Irene. This is my new bride, Byrony. Ladies, this is Brent Hammond, a relatively new business addition to San Francisco.”
“Mr. Hammond,” Irene said.
Brent nodded. “Miss Butler. Mrs. Butler.”
“Sorry business,” Ezra Lacy said, shaking his head as he passed a cup of steaming coffee to Brent. “Ira was wondering if he shouldn’t take the ladies off, given what happened last night.”
“I understand, Mr. Hammond,” said Irene, “that you saved Mrs. Saxton’s life.”
“It was fortunate, ma’am, that I was still on deck at the time,” Brent said. He didn’t imagine that Del wanted the story bruited about, and said in a dismissive voice, “The fellow is likely long gone by now. An unhappy experience for Mrs. Saxton.”
“It is what I thought,” Irene said. “The wretch probably wanted to rob her.”
Brent blinked at her conclusion, but decided it was for the best. “Undoubtedly you’re right, ma’am,” he said. He felt Byrony’s eyes on him and slowly turned toward her. She looked strained, as if she hadn’t slept well, her eyes shadowed. Good, maybe her conscience bothered her enough to keep her awake. He said aloud, his voice tightly controlled, “You’re looking a bit peaked, Mrs. Butler. I hope the excitement of last night didn’t upset you too much.”
Arrogant, mean bastard. “Not at all,” she said.
“My wife was tucked safely in her bed at the time,” Ira said, patting Byrony’s hand.
Brent wanted to strike the man. The thought of him touching her, taking her, made his guts cramp. I’m losing what’s left of my meager mind. All over a woman who was nothing but an insubstantial dream. He heard Ezra Lacy laugh and say wistfully, “What a bore you new husbands are, Ira. How can I conduct any business with you with your lovely bride about?”
“We accomplished rather a goodly amount last evening, if I recall correctly,” Ira said. “But knowing you, Ezra, you want to talk my ear off all the way to Sacramento.”
“Well, actually, old man, there are some papers I’d like you to see, if you have the time. Perhaps Mr. Hammond would entertain the ladies for a bit?”
Brent saw Byrony’s eyes fly in consternation to his face, but he said easily, “It would be a pleasure, gentlemen. I should be delighted to point out all the sights of interest and make myself generally pleasing.” He turned to Irene. “For example, did you know, ma’am, that we’re quite close to Hock Farm? Mr. Sutter is in residence, you know, and one of his sons with him. He’s much changed, I understand.”
“Do you mind, my dear?” Ira asked Byrony. “I shan’t be overlong.”
What could she say?
“I think I shall return to my room,” Irene said. “Enjoy the lovely morning, Byrony. Gentlemen.”
Ira helped her to rise and it seemed but a moment later that Byrony was staring at Brent Hammond. She felt as though they were the only two human beings in the world even though other passengers were within three feet of them.
“I think I will also go to my cabin,” Byrony said, beginning to rise from her chair.
“What? Afraid? I assure you, Mrs. Butler, that I won’t attempt anything so injudicious as kissing you in front of the world or touching your breasts.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Mr. Hammond,” she said finally, “I do not understand why you are being so outrageous and insulting to me. To the best of my knowledge I’ve never harmed you, never done anything, save spill flour on you.”
“It would appear a mystery, wouldn’t it?” He lounged back in his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “I believe, however, that we do have some unfinished business.”
“What is that, sir?”
“I believe I told you that if you struck me again, I would retaliate in kind. If you recall, you very nearly unmanned me. If your aim had been better, I venture to say I wouldn’t have been able to save the fair Mrs. Saxton from her attacker.”
“You were the attacker, sir! I was only protecting myself!”
Brent sat forward. She saw the dark brilliance of his blue eyes drawing her toward him. He wanted to touch her, wanted to jerk out all those damned pins, and sift his fingers through her hair. “Were you really, Byrony? It is quite odd, you know.” He continued after a moment, “I thought your name so very charming and unusual. Perhaps I even believed for a brief while that you, like your name, would be different from other women. Despite what I knew in my experience to be true. You look quite well surrounded by wealth, so much more sophisticated than the girl I saw in San Diego.”
“Mr. Hammond, I cannot address your so-called experience. Whatever disappointments you have known have nothing whatsoever to do with me. Will you please just leave me alone?”
“I have been thinking of retaliation,” he continued. “My fingers itch to bare your bottom and thrash you.”
“Stop it. I won’t listen to any more of this.” She jumped to her feet, nearly upsetting the small table.
“Sit down, Mrs. Butler. Surely you don’t wish to make a scene. I’m fairly certain that many of the passengers know your husband. What would he say, I wonder?”
There was truth in what he said. She eased back into her chair. He could do nothing to her here, nothing at all. She would simply endure until he tired of baiting her.
“That’s better. Tell me, Byrony, does your husband please you in bed? Did it concern him that you came to him a soiled dove? Or did you deceive him and scream at the appropriate time? Perhaps a bit of fake blood?”
Her eyes widened. He wanted to shake her. Guileless-ness, the mark of a good actress. Her eyes fell to her lap, and he saw a flush of anger, pain, he didn’t know which, color her cheeks.
“Ah, I see your show of ignorance didn’t last long.”
No, she thought numbly, I know what you’re talking about. My dear father told me the same thing. I have to get control of myself. He can’t hurt me, not here. Not anywhere. Soon I’ll be free of him. That brought an unaccountable pain, and she blinked.
“Mr. Hammond, who is the duchess? And what does she have to do with a house next to your saloon?”
He looked startled, then threw his head back and laughed deeply. “My dear, you have been listening when you shouldn’t.”
“I thought perhaps that she was your mistress.”
He laughed all the harder. “No, she’s not my mistress, she’s my business partner. Her name is Maggie, and wonder of wonders, she is an honest woman. Diogenes would have been thrilled had he run across her. As for her house it is a brothel. The duchess is a madam, one of San Francisco’s finest. Belle Cora and Ah Choy don’t touch her in terms of the beauty and skill of her girls.”
“A brothel,” she repeated numbly.
“Yes, I’m sure you know what that is. A place where men pay to be pleasured. Her house of pleasure connects to my saloon. The two businesses, side by side, complement each other, as I’m sure you can imagine. A man wins, he wants to celebrate. A man loses, he wants to bury his sorrows, and what better place than in a woman’s warm body?”
Byrony couldn’t believe he was speaking of a brothel and what men did so matter-of-factly. She could think of nothing to put him in his place. He would only laugh if she told him the truth. She’d already told him the truth and he hadn’t believed her. All her life, she’d been protected. It was her father had made her feel dirty.
“Perhaps,” Brent continued in a lazy drawl when she continued silent, “you will want to visit Maggie. On the sly, of course. A woman who marries an older man for his money
rarely stays content for long. A rich husband need only enjoy his purchase; he need have no qualms about not satisfying a lusty little wife. As I said last night, Mrs. Butler, when you tire of the charade, I might consider bedding you. Only, let me be the first. I don’t want to be too far down the list of your lovers.”
She’d tried not to listen to him, but couldn’t help herself. She supposed dispassionately that most men were like him, like her father. Only Ira was different. She rose very slowly and smiled down at him. “Mr. Hammond, are you quite through, now?”
“No, I still have to bare your bottom.”
“I believe you are through, sir. My husband is a very kind man, a gentleman. He is, as a matter of fact, the only kind man I’ve ever known. I told you once that there was no meanness in you. Obviously I was wrong, quite wrong. Good-bye, sir.”
She turned on her heel, pausing abruptly when he said, “When is the child due?”
She slowly turned back to face him, her face drained of color. “What do you know of that?”
“I asked,” he said, his voice as cold as a winter night. And the truth was on her face. “It seems that you and your sister-in-law are going to be staying for some months in Sacramento. Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Butler, I won’t spread it about that the bedding preceded the marriage. But then, were it not for the child, there would have been no marriage, would there?”
She looked straight through him. “No,” she said, “you are right about that.”
He rose suddenly and towered over her. “So it is true. Damn you, I would have—” He broke off, stunned at the thought that would have so readily formed into words. I would have married you.
She saw the rage in his eyes. She didn’t understand him or his rage. He had nothing but contempt for her, didn’t he?
“I hope you won’t lose your lovely figure,” he said.
“I won’t, Mr. Hammond. But why do you care?”
“I don’t, damn you!”
It was he who strode off, quickly, angrily. She stared after him.
“I must go see to Irene,” she said aloud. “Yes, I will go see Irene.”
Byrony hated Sacramento. It was hot and damp even though it was spring. Ira’s house was small, airless, but at least it was close to the river. And the river, thank God, wasn’t off limits to her. She sat across from Ira and Irene in the square sitting room, listening to her husband speak.
“Don’t forget, Byrony, that you mustn’t mingle with the townfolk. I am acquainted with some of them, and it wouldn’t do for them to see my wife obviously unpregnant when she is supposed to be.”
Byrony shifted slightly in her chair as a trickle of sweat snaked its way between her breasts. She sighed. “All right, Ira.”
“I realize this will be a difficult time for both of you, but I can think of no other alternative.”
Byrony was tempted to ask him why they couldn’t go to Nevada City, for example, where no one would know or care who they were. But she held her peace. She’d given her word and must keep it.
“I have paid your doctor, Irene, to keep his mouth closed. His name is Vincent Chambers. He’s a good man, and he will shortly pay you a visit. I know you are a great reader, Byrony, and I’ll provide you with as many books as I can find here. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I must conduct some business before I return to San Francisco.”
Byrony let Irene walk her brother to the front door. She knew he was worried about his sister, and since she had nothing really to say to him, it was better this way.
“I made some iced lemonade, Miz Butler. You’re looking peaked.”
“Thank you, Eileen.” She took a deep swallow and leaned her head back against the chair cushion. Brent Hammond’s face appeared instantly, as if she’d conjured him. He had about as good an opinion of her as did her father. Why did she care if he believed her a slut? She knew she’d let him believe her pregnant—the crowning blow—but she’d had no choice, after all. She couldn’t betray Ira or Irene. She forced herself to rise and walk slowly to the window that looked onto the river. She tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. She felt drained of energy, drained of hope, and leaned her forehead against the glass, closing her eyes.
Leave me alone, Brent Hammond, she said silently to the man in her mind. Just leave me alone. But part of her wondered what he was doing, wondered how long he would stay in Sacramento. Her hands fisted. Tears mixed with the sweat on her face, but she didn’t notice.
SEVEN
Sacramento, 1853
“It’s what everyone believes, isn’t it, Ira?”
Ira looked at Byrony, knowing that she’d wanted to ask him this for quite a long time. She was quite bright, he’d realized, and wondered why she hadn’t brought it out in the open before now. He said very gently, “Yes, Byrony, yes, that’s what everyone thinks.”
“I’m not surprised, not really. When we return to San Francisco, I with my child in tow, then it will be confirmed. Will anyone even speak to me?”
He truly regretted the isolation he’d enforced on Byrony and his sister. His weekly visit each month had offered some respite, but not much. “Byrony, you will, perhaps, not believe me, but the good people of San Francisco think more of us for removing obvious scandal from in front of their noses. When you return, you will be welcomed gladly, by everyone I know, even the greatest sticklers. It is easier for someone to accept a baby, magically produced before his or her eyes, than watching one grow more quickly than it should. Of course everyone believes we married because you were pregnant, but your absence somehow ennobles you.”
“So, we’re saving them from themselves,” Byrony said.
“If you wish to put it that way, yes. I have been upstairs to visit Irene, and she assures me that she is feeling fine save for a slight backache. Also, Dr. Chambers agrees that everything appears normal. Is this also your opinion?”
Byrony shrugged. How could Ira appear so cool-looking, his linen so crisp and fresh? She felt like one of Eileen’s limp dusting cloths. Even in September, her shift was clinging damply to her back by ten o’clock in the morning.
“Forgive me, Ira,” she said, giving him as much of a smile as she could. “Irene is fine. The heat is enervating and she suffers, but she says little. I swear I don’t know how people can bear to live here! I can count on the fingers of my left hand how many days have been tolerable.”
Ira looked thoughtful. He sipped at his hot tea, making Byrony wince. She’d drunk more iced lemonade and more water during the summer months in Sacramento than ever in her life. Boston in the summer had been hot, certainly, but Aunt Ida’s house had been large and airy, and blessedly cool.
“Has Irene spoken to you about—about things?”
If only she had, Byrony thought, it would have served to pass the time more quickly. Irene was like a clam. She shook her head. “No. I do not feel it my place to pry, Ira. If she was ever bitter about that man or the baby, she hasn’t let on to me. No, she seems really quite happy about it—content, I suppose you’d say.”
“Good,” he said, relief in his voice. “All of this has been so hard for her. I’ve been worried.”
What about me? Byrony wanted to ask, but she didn’t. She wanted to say that she now understood what it must be like to be jailed, but it wouldn’t do.
“The baby is due in about two weeks,” Byrony said.
“Yes, I shall return in time. It is important that I be here.”
It was odd, Byrony thought, but she hadn’t gotten close to Irene over the past months, and she’d tried. But Irene remained somehow aloof, and the baby was Irene’s, not hers, and Irene didn’t seem to want that to change. If she spoke with any animation at all, it was about the child. Byrony wondered yet again how Irene would act once the child was born. How could she even begin to treat the child as her own? It seemed impossible to her.
“I have a letter for you from your mother, Byrony,” Ira said.
Byrony accepted the envelope from her husband. It had been opened, just as
the two others had been. The first time, he’d said only, apology in his voice, “It’s your father, Byrony. I’m afraid I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I,” she’d said, wondering what that had to do with anything, but he still opened the letters.
The letter contained little news, not a word, in fact, about her father. Her mother, of course, believed her to be living in San Francisco, happily, with her new husband. She finished the letter and folded it back into its envelope. She would answer it and give it to Ira to post from San Francisco. The deception would be maintained.
Suddenly she felt more lonely than she’d ever felt in her life. Empty. Tears sprang to her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks.
“Byrony.”
She gulped and swiped her hand across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ira, truly I am. It’s just that—” She broke off, uncertain of what words would spill out of her mouth.
He rose and crossed over to her. “Poor Byrony,” he said, stroking her shoulders. “It’s been very hard for you, hasn’t it? I shall make it up to you, I promise.” He sighed. “You are so very young. You need gaiety and parties.”
“People,” she said. “I need people.” Suddenly she wanted desperately to ask him about Brent Hammond. She had to bite down on her tongue not to. Instead, she said, “Tell me what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Saxton.”
He looked relieved, abundantly so. “It’s odd, the entire business. I heard rumors in the early summer that Mrs. Saxton was trailed by a bodyguard. Then there was a fire at one of Saxton’s warehouses. They left San Francisco, so I was told, in midsummer and returned some three weeks ago. As far as I know, everything is fine between them. Whatever mystery there was, if there was one, has been cleared up.”
She didn’t really care, but pretended to listen.
They were both startled at the sound of a piercing scream from above.
“Oh, my God,” Ira said, and dashed from the sitting room to the stairs.
She trailed after him. Eileen blocked her at the bedchamber door. “No, Miz Butler. I don’t think you should come in. The baby wants to arrive a bit early. Mr. Butler is going soon to fetch the doctor.”