“Damn it all to hell and back, Gale—!” Pierre never called him anything but Captain unless the two men were alone. He never cursed, seldom even lost his temper.
“Mr. Galen, this man won’t let me play with his cards. He won’t even let me watch a game.”
“Tara, this is no place for a child.”
“I’m practically thirteen years old. Why can’t I stay? Those ladies are here.”
Sweat popping out on his forehead, Galen shot a distracted glance at Sally and Ermaline, two of Aster’s girls. “Those ladies work here. You’re not old enough to be—”
“Listen here, McKnight, if you let her stay, I’m taking my business to Bellfort,” exclaimed one of the town’s most prominent citizens, a wholesale merchant.
“That goes for me, too, McKnight,” said a retired judge.
“You don’t need no fortune-teller. Pierre can sandbag us without no help from a kid.”
*
Some twenty minutes later, Galen left Tara at Ila’s cabin with instructions to stay out of trouble until he came back for her. He strode along the corridors, aching thigh bone, miserable boots and all, barely aware that he was even limping. He was too damned angry to feel much pain.
Through absolutely no fault of his own, he had one O’Sullivan sprawled out on his bed, stewed to the gills, while another one was doing her damnedest to drive his best customers away. What kind of scam had the kid been running, anyway? He still hadn’t figured out how she did it—wasn’t even sure he believed it, with a dozen witnesses ready to swear she was a witch.
What was he supposed to do now with a kid who claimed she hadn’t meant to cause trouble, who couldn’t seem to understand why anyone would get upset just because she could read a man’s cards with her eyes closed?
Damn. He still couldn’t believe it, and he’d seen it with his own eyes. Tara swore she’d never played poker before, didn’t know faro from frogs, and had never even seen a roulette wheel. But when he’d put her to the test, she’d called nearly every shot before the bets were even placed.
How the devil could she cheat when she didn’t know how the game was played? Even if she was hedging the truth, he still couldn’t figure out how she’d done it.
But he’d seen what he had seen. He’d heard what the others had said. There was only one conclusion he could draw, and that was that she was telling the truth. Or at least the truth as she saw it.
Galen was moderately skilled at all games of chance. He’d always been lucky. Lucky, at least, when it came to cards. Stranded on the West Coast between ships, he’d once done a stint at dealing in a third-rate gambling parlor. It turned out to be a hell of a lot easier than working aboard a ship. But a gambler needed soft hands and nimble fingers, and his years at sea as both an ablebodied seaman and an officer had hardened his fingertips, just as too many waterfront brawls had turned his knuckles to steel.
He knew men. He had an uncanny ability to spot a cheater. Any man caught cheating aboard the Queen was tossed into the river. It he couldn’t swim, he was fished out with a boat hook, dumped onto the wharf, and told not to come back.
As for crooked dealers, any who were discovered working aboard the Queen were swiftly consigned as deckhands aboard departing ships. The old tub might not be the fanciest gambling boat on the Pasquotank, but she had a reputation for fair dealing that was better than money in the bank.
So what the hell was he supposed to do with a kid who cheated without even playing the game? He still found it hard to believe that a freckle-faced runt with a brogue so thick you could cut it with a butter knife had come close to bringing down his entire operation before she’d been on board half a day.
After ordering a round of drinks on the house, he’d put Charlie in charge of Pierre’s table, delivered the kid to Ila, and joined Pierre, his head dealer, in the small salon, which wouldn’t open until later on that evening when the high rollers started wandering in.
“All right, suppose you start from the first and tell me what you make of it.”
“If she’s using mirrors, damned if I could catch her at it. I thought I knew every system on the books, but that kid beats all.”
Pierre, scion of a wealthy New Orleans family who paid him twelve thousand a year to stay away, leaned against the baize-topped table, a scowl on his darkly handsome face. A soft-spoken man with pale, watchful eyes, he looked every inch the professional gambler.
Galen might dress the part, but his heart wasn’t in it. Gambling was a means to an end, which, in his case, was a small shipyard specializing in shallow-draft boats suited for the sounds and rivers of the mid-Atlantic and waterway traffic.
He counted among his friends some of the town’s most affluent and influential citizens—men he would need if his venture was going to succeed—but if word got out that he’d hired a little girl to do whatever the hell it was she’d been doing, his reputation as a reputable businessman was sunk.
“She’s a witch disguised as a kid.” Pierre, who had an unerring instinct when it came to explaining things that defied rational explanation, summed it up. “Gale, I’ve never seen the like of it. She stood right there and called out every card in old Judge Henry’s hand. He damn near swallowed a two-dollar cigar. And what beats all is, she didn’t have anything to gain. No money riding on it. It was like a game to her, like she was showing off, you know what I mean?”
“I wish to hell I did.”
Galen paced. He opened the door, called for Ermaline to bring her tray over, selected a cigar, clipped it, licked it, lit it, and scowled at the thing as if the answers might be encoded on the gold and ruby red band.
“I’ll have to find someplace to stash the pair of them until I can figure out what to do with them. Legally, they’re not my problem, but I can’t in all good conscience just dump ‘em out on the street.”
“Why not?” Pierre, ever popular with the ladies, wasn’t known for his tender heart.
“For one thing, I owe them.”
“They’re Irish. Anything to do with the gent who fished you out of the drink?”
Galen had sketched in the story, leaving out the details. “His daughters. Orphans now. O’Sullivan’s mates never let me forget it, either. Believe me, they weren’t any too tender when it came to sewing up my head and setting my broken leg. They laid a load of guilt on my back about him being a family man and all that. The minute they figured I could stand the trip, they hauled my ass to Galway and dumped me aboard the first outbound freighter. Once I made it home, I cleaned out my bank account and sent it to that hard-hearted devil who stitched up my scalp with fishing twine and told him to forward it to O’Sullivan’s family. Hell, I didn’t even know their names.”
“Conscience money?”
Galen shrugged. “Next thing I knew, these two females turn up, and now I’m stuck with them.”
“Until Aster comes back.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Isn’t there some kind of mission in town?”
“Oh, hell, man, I can’t hand ‘em over to any mission. The older one has some highfalutin plan to go into business once she earns herself a stake. She’s looking for work, not a handout.”
“The kid could set up a tent and tell fortunes. The other one didn’t look like much—I didn’t get a good look at her, but there’s always Miz Dilly’s Sporting Palace.”
Galen shot him a hard look. “She’s respectable.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so, dammit. I’ll have Ila ask around. She might know someone who needs a housekeeper.”
Pierre shrugged. “Who’s going to keep the young’un out of trouble if the older one finds work?”
“She’ll be in school.”
“Got it all figured out, have you?”
“I wish to God I had.” Galen stared out through the porthole at the still, black waters of the Pasquotank River. “All I know is I’ve got to find some way to keep ‘em off my back. First thing tomorrow, I’ll see what arrangements
I can make in town.”
*
“That there lace is torn. See if you can sew it back so it won’t show. When you’re done with that, there’s that pile of stockings to mend.”
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Katy frowned at the lace. It was cheap, hardly worth the trouble to mend. Finer than anything she’d ever owned, but then, every Irishwoman, rich or poor, knew good lace when she saw it, even if she couldn’t afford to wear it.
“You can use my chair, if you’ve a mind to,” said the stern-faced woman who managed the cigarette girls and the housekeeping staff.
“The light’s better over here,” Katy told her, perfectly comfortable to be warm, well fed, and safe in a place that wasn’t moving. Other than a slight headache she’d woken up with and the mild soreness in her belly that usually accompanied her monthly flow, she felt better than she had in months.
“I’ve set the girl to peeling potatoes.” The words were spoken as a challenge.
“To be sure, she’s glad of a chance to be useful.”
“Yes, well . . . Cap’n Galen, he didn’t say what to do with her, he just said to keep her out of the gaming rooms.”
Katy bit off the end of a thread and squinted at the torn lace on a ruffled petticoat. “I was wondering, would you happen to know of anyone looking for help? I can turn a hand to most anything, and I’m willing to work hard.”
“Work, you say? Let me tell you something, missy, work’s not easy to find if you’re a decent woman. Even if you find it, it don’t pay near as well as the other kind, if you know what I mean. I’ll be needing a maid, but that don’t pay much. Not enough for two, leastwise. Now, that Jack Bellfort that owns the boat just down the river, he might be looking for help. You could ask there.”
Jack Bellfort. It was somewhere to start, at least, Katy told herself as she squinted over the pile of mending in her lap. They had spent the night in the captain’s bed, sleeping as snug as two cats on a hearth. Her conscience bothered her a bit, but then, surely the captain of such a fine boat had more beds than one. With any luck at all they’d have a place of their own before the day ended, and a decent, respectable job.
*
Humming under her breath, Tara dropped another potato into the salted water. It was almost like being back home, with the heat of the stove and the smell of bread baking, only at home there’d never been so many potatoes in the pot all at once.
Now that she’d had more time to look about—now that those old men were no longer yelling at her, she meant to learn everything there was to know about the boat and the people and the town so that she could advise Katy. Squinting at the tall window just behind the big iron range, she allowed the impressions to drift in, making no attempt to sort them out. Little bits and pieces would drift away. Important things would come clear. Sometimes she saw silly things, like the mice nesting in the pantry and a dog sleeping on the wharf in the sun. There was a glimpse of a man with a knife and a rope in his hand, but that was probably only because she had a knife in her own hand.
She dropped another potato into the pot. She could peel a tatie closer than even Katy could. It was nice to be good at something real. Something besides seeing things.
Sometimes she tried too hard and mistook what she saw, and then Katy would scold. She hated being scolded but she understood. She understood far more than anyone thought she did. She was, after all, practically thirteen years old. She already had bumps on her chest.
The captain wasn’t married. There’d been a picture of a lady on his shelf for a while, but it wasn’t there now. When she thought about the captain and the sad-eyed lady, she didn’t feel anything at all.
Sometimes the captain hurt. Sometimes he was sad, too. Sometimes he was angry. She thought it might be something she’d done. The angry, not the sad. She wondered if she should tell him that if he took off his boots, he wouldn’t hurt quite so much.
“When ye’ve done with them ‘taters, get to work on the onions.”
“Sure, and I’ll be happy to.” She beamed at the cook, whose name was Willy. Willy scowled back at her, but he wasn’t really angry, he only pretended to be because it made the kitchen boys move faster.
Katy was fretting again. She’d been fretting over one thing and another ever since they’d left home, but then, Katy had never been a one for bold adventuring. One day Tara was going to see every corner of the world, all the places in her mother’s books, from Constantinople to Timbucktoo, only first she had to stay here with the sad, angry captain and Katy, because they needed her. Perhaps when they had each other, she’d be free to set out on her travels.
Half closing her eyes, she tried to see beyond the veil. Sometimes she tried too hard, and what she saw wasn’t quite right. On board the ship coming to Amerikey, she’d seen ever so much, only it was hard to concentrate on what it all meant with so many people around, most of them moaning and groaning over their buckets, with snatches of thoughts coming at her too fast from all sides.
Still and all, being near water always helped. Sometimes it helped too much. Sometimes she saw things she’d as lief not see, and then she would sing real loud to block it out, only then Katy would think things about her singing. She never said it right out, but Tara knew. When the gifts of the O’Sullivans had been handed out, Katy had got the voice and Tara had got the sight. Sometimes she wished it had been the other way around, but then, a gift was a gift, and had to be guarded carefully or it would turn on you.
Those men had been angry with her, and all for nothing. She’d just wanted to play their games, only they said she was too young, and besides, she didn’t know how, and besides that, she had no money.
So then she’d told them that she was practically thirteen years old, and she’d showed them that she knew all about cards, but she truly didn’t have any money. Not a copper penny to her name.
Maybe if she peeled enough potatoes . . .
Chapter Four
It was nearly eleven when Galen set out the next morning. He was not in a cheerful frame of mind. There’d been a brawl on the docks during the night that had required police intervention. Aside from the fact that he had a personal interest in a game that was currently being played out in the shadowy world of warehouses, cribs, and fish houses, such matters were bad for business.
He’d been up past midnight going over the books. Tedious business. More in Brand’s line than his own, which was why he’d gone to sea while Brand had stayed ashore and turned Mc Knight’s Shipping into one of the more successful small shipping companies on the East Coast.
What he needed was to find himself a good bookkeeper who wouldn’t crumble to Aster’s demands as the last one had.
Charlie, the second dealer, had been pestering him lately, wanting to talk to him about Sally. He’d put him off again this morning. Dammit, he was no Madame Lonelihearts! He made it a policy never to involve himself in the private lives of his employees, as long as those private lives didn’t interfere with their work.
He’d been halfway down the gangplank when Ila buttonholed him about a matter of draperies. Claimed the sun was fading them. As if he or a single one of his regulars cared if the things were hanging in shreds. He told her to wait and take it up with Aster.
“Yes, well, I reckon Miss Aster’ll have enough on her plate with that pair of Irishers. Sews right well, the older one does, but that young’un . . . mm-mm! Before she was even done with her breakfast this morning, my gals were lining up to have their fortunes told. Maybe we could—”
“And maybe we couldn’t.” He’d escaped, feeling beleaguered, irritable, and restless after a night plagued by dreams of a kind he hadn’t had in years. Dreams in which that green-eyed witch had played a starring role, which made it all the more vital to get her off his boat and settled in town, where he wouldn’t have to deal with her.
With a few notable exceptions, Galen prided himself on being reasonable, fair, and even-tempered. The exceptions usually had to do with Aster, who was stubborn, opiniona
ted, spoiled, and not above a bit of chicanery. Even so, he’d been the one to call the shots, with only the occasional strategic compromise for the sake of peace.
Until yesterday.
*
Some six hours later, after a thoroughly frustrating day, Galen left his horse and buggy at the livery and walked the short distance to the boat, getting soaked in the process. He’d been a fool not to drive to the wharf and let one of the boys return the rig.
It wasn’t the first time he’d done something stupid, nor would it be the last, but he’d wasted an entire day. If there was one thing he’d learned in the cold waters off the northeast coast of Ireland, it was that time was precious. Far too valuable to waste.
Now thoroughly out of sorts, he was limping before he even set foot on the gangplank. In the course of inspecting every halfway decent accommodation in town, finding something to criticize in every one, he must have climbed in and out of that damned buggy three dozen times.
Who would have thought in a town this size, with all the commerce brought in by shipping, shipbuilding, and farming, not to mention the oil mill and the new cotton mill, there’d be no place for a pair of respectable young ladies to stay?
The first one he’d dismissed immediately. Too many men living there. The next place he’d tried, a block over on Fearing Street, had a single vacancy no bigger than a paint locker. He’d trudged up three flights of steep, narrow stairs to see for himself. The room contained a single cot, a chamber pot, and a dresser with one leg missing. Two dollars a week, meals not included. It was a seller’s market, he concluded. Thanks to a growing economy.
He’d been tempted by a third, a handsome two-story house on one of the town’s better streets. The owner had struck him as one of those starchy types who could be counted on to look after a pair of motherless girls.
But that was before he’d taken a better look at a few of the other women staying there. There was no mistaking the invitation in all those painted eyes.
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