by Jill Barnett
As they neared the theater, the street was thick with other playgoers. They inched their way forward, and once in front of the theater, Kit opened the door. He and Lee got out to help the women down. The crowd at the entrance milled about, filling the night air with noise and laughter. Kit pulled her to his side while he spoke to Duncan who was driving the rig, and then they joined Lee and Sabine as they made their way inside. Tobacco smoke and musky sweat laced with strong perfume hung as densely as fog in the air of the foyer. Hallie’s eyes teared in reaction.
Kit’s hand held her close to his side as they moved with the crowd. Finally, the space widened and Kit led her into an open section cordoned off with gold-braided rope. There were no grubby, sweaty miners here, only the well-dressed members of the city’s burgeoning affluent class. Kit helped her off with her cloak and handed them, along with his hat and gloves, to a waiting attendant.
The man then assisted Lee, and when Sabine removed her flowing cloak, Hallie had to stifle her shocked gasp. The woman’s dress had no bodice, only a lacy ruffle that barely lapped over her nipples and then plunged in a deep vee ending just above her tightly cinched waist. At least Hallie assumed it was cinched; even Liv’s waist wasn’t that small. Then she stared, trying to figure out what type of corset Sabine wore beneath so scant a dress.
“Put your eyes back in your head, sweet. You’ll only give her the reaction she wants,” Kit said, a smile from lilting through his voice.
Hallie turned away from Sabine and moved closer to Kit. “What do you suppose she’s wearing underneath?” she whispered.
Kit laughed out loud and then leaned down to her. “Skin, lots of skin.”
Another attendant passed by, this one carrying a tray filled with glasses. Kit helped himself to two, handing one to her. She eyed the pale, bubbling liquid as if it were witches’ brew.
“It’s champagne,” Kit explained, before he sipped his own glass, watching her over its brim.
Hallie slowly brought the glass near her lips. The bubbles sprinkled her nose, and it smelled . . . odd, dry yet tart. Then she tasted it and her face puckered. “It’s like rotten cider that’s been watered down.”
Kit choked on his drink. He took the glass from her hand and set it and his own on a ledge. He took her arm again. “A wife with simple tastes. What more could a man ask for?’’
Simple? “Wait. I’ve changed my mind.” She plucked the glass off the ledge and downed the champagne in one huge gulp. She held out the glass. “More, please.”
“I thought you didn’t like it.” He scrutinized her.
“It grows on you,” she replied.
Kit looked around. “I don’t see him anywhere. You’ve had enough anyway, for your first taste.”
The waiter came from Hallie’s direction. “Oh look! I was just thinking about you,” she said, smiling sweetly at the man while she took two glasses off his tray and guzzled them down. She hardly had time to set the glasses back on the puzzled man’s tray when Kit pulled her down the carpeted corridor.
Hallie felt delightfully light. She glanced at her surroundings, eyeing the tiered chandeliers and the dance of their flickering candles. Etched glass wall sconces lined the stairway and gilt mirrors hung from the richly flocked wallpaper. She tried to see her reflection in the mirrors, but there wasn’t time to focus and keep up with Kit’s long stride.
“Where are we going?” she asked, swallowing a burp that would rival Liv’s.
“To the box,” Kit said, his tone brooking no argument.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
He pulled her through a draped doorway, and he paused, apparently letting his eyes become accustomed to the dim theater. Lee and Sabine were seated on the right, in the rear chairs. Kit pulled her around and pushed her into one of the front chairs. She should have been irritated at Kit’s manhandling, but she didn’t really mind; right now, she liked everyone.
Sabine tittered.
Well, Hallie thought, not everyone. She blinked and looked around the cavernous room. The stage was draped with the same rich material that secluded the box. The high ceiling rose another two stories above them, and the area below the elevated stage was jammed with people, sitting or standing wherever there was a small space. Hallie weaved slightly and she felt that queasy vertigo feeling.
Kit pulled her back. “Are you all right?”
She shrugged, her face contorting a bit.
“I forgot about you and heights. Here . . .” Kit pulled her chair back, next to his own, and slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. “Rest your head on my shoulder, Hallie-girl.” A few quiet moments passed and he asked, “Is that better?”
It was wonderful! Hallie nodded, snuggling closer to his warm body. The curtain rose, and soon she was immersed in the actors and their play. Kit’s arm held her comfortably against him, and she relaxed. The rich scent of his tobacco began to work its magic, and then his hand softly caressed her bare arm.
Hallie sighed, and then suddenly hiccupped. Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to stifle the next one. It was louder than the first, and they seemed to pop out of her like champagne bubbles. They would not stop. People turned and looked, and some began to “shoosh” at them, and in a flash Kit was kissing the breath right out of her. Her hiccups left, her sense left, and she just let herself taste him. His tongue played havoc with her own, filling her mouth thickly and then retreating to beckon her mimicry of the kiss.
The applause, loud and cheering, finally made them sever the kiss. With dazed eyes, Hallie gazed up at her husband. His look was as hot as she felt. She looked down, aware of his hand resting on her breast. She watched as he slowly drew his fingertips across the sensitive skin of her collarbone. Her breasts swelled and tightened, and she shivered from the soft stroke of his fingertips as they whispered across her skin. The activity around them broke the spell, turning her passion into embarrassment.
Moments later Kit stood, stretching his long legs. “It’s intermission. Do you want some lemonade? No more champagne.”
Hallie shook her head.
“Stay away from the balcony rail, will you? I’ll be back in a few minutes. You will be all right here?” Kit nodded in Sabine’s direction.
“I’ll be fine.” Hallie was getting a headache. Her chair was well away from the railing, and she could care less about Sabine.
After a few peaceful minutes, in which she tried—without success—to understand her ripening sensuality, she felt something poke her shoulder. It was Sabine’s ivory fan prodding for her attention. She swallowed her dislike and decided to give the woman a chance. She turned around with a friendly smile plastered on her face.
“When are you due?” Sabine asked, staring at Hallie’s waist.
Her smile died. “Pardon me?”
“The baby, my dear, when is it due?”
“There is no baby,” Hallie blurted.
“Really? How odd. Your marriage was so . . . hurried, that I assumed . . . Well, my dear, you must know that Kit Howland has always been considered unattainable. Since he’s never associated with any particular woman, I suppose I expected that he had . . .” Sabine must have seen the rising anger in Hallie’s look, because the woman shut her mouth. She snapped open her fan and prudently changed the subject.
“My, but the air is close in here.” Sabine fluttered her fan while her piercing eyes darted from one group to another.
Sizing up the competition, Hallie thought, watching the burgundy-haired witch position her exposed body to where it would draw the most attention. It irritated Hallie, having to sit by while this woman preened in front of the ribald males in the mezzanine below. The whistles and jeers forced Hallie to glance down. Suddenly, her embarrassment, her anger, and her headache vanished, replaced by pure panic. Through the raucous crowd, one face stared back at her. It was Abner
Brown.
She tried to memorize his position before she stood and raced from the box in search of Kit. She worked her way down the crowded stairway and then paused, trying to locate Kit or Lee. To get through the swarm of people, she had to finally edge her way along the wall of the corridor. She came to where the hallway split, and as she edged blindly around the corner, a hand jerked her into a dimly lit nook.
“What the hell are you doing out here alone?”
Kit’s angry voice forced a breath of relief from her lips. “Abner Brown’s here. I saw him,” she blurted out.
Kit grabbed her shoulders. “Where?”
“Just now, down in the far gallery, near the pillar under the front box.”
“I’m sending you home with Duncan.”
“But what—”
“Don’t argue with me,” Kit ordered, dragging her, cloakless, out of the theater.
Hallie’s teeth chattered from the cold, wet air. “I c-can’t ar-argue if I—I fr-freeze to d-death,” she grumbled, hugging her bare arms.
Kit shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her as he looked for their carriage. He pulled her along the line of parked carriages, found theirs, and all but threw her inside and closed the door. She heard him give Duncan some garbled instructions, and then he was gone. Hallie sat huddled against the seat for a few minutes, wondering why they weren’t leaving.
The carriage door opened, and Duncan helped an angry Sabine inside. Hallie stifled her groan; she had forgotten about Sabine. As the carriage snapped into motion, the woman ranted about her ruined evening. Lee had gone with Kit to find Abner. Sabine was spitting toads. How dare he abandon her like he did? Lee Prescott was going to be sorry, she swore.
Hallie shivered in silence, thinking that Lee was lucky, since Sabine would most likely have pinched him.
Abner moved through the crowd, pushing and shoving at anything in his hurried path. He turned his pasty, sunken face around and scanned the room.
She had seen him, and he had to get away. He clawed his escape, his mind flashing, one moment with the picture of Dagny’s beaten face, and another with the look of horror on the older sister. As he neared the rear exit he spotted that friend of Howland’s, the whaling captain named Prescott. He was pointing right at Abner and shouting. Abner’s anxious eyes darted to the other doorway. Howland looked straight at him, fighting his way toward him. The man’s look was rabid.
Abner stooped to the floor, hiding his escape path from the two men, and crawled toward the stage. When he neared the front, he stood, looking for his pursuers. He heard a commotion a few feet away. Sheriff Hayes was there and had spotted him, too. Abner looked around and ran through the drapes near the wing of the stage, not stopping until he was hidden behind a huge wooden crate.
His heart throbbed in his ears, and his breathing was ragged and shallow. He could hear them following, tracking, ordering his hunt. The sounds of the play began again, but still Abner could feel the men closing in. Along the open framing of one wall stood a row of trunks with costumes scattered around them.
Abner peered around the crate and then ran for the nearest open trunk. He shoved the musty clothing aside and crouched inside, pulling the trunk closed. He hid in the dark interior, panting and feeling like a hunted animal. He, Abner Brown, who should have been viewing the play from a private box, cowered in a trunk. He rocked with contempt.
Nothing was left. He had nothing; his heritage was long ago sold, and his name no longer meant anything. His business and home were destroyed, and he was a fugitive, forced to hide in the depths of a floating opium den, where his gold had bought the sweet oblivion his body craved.
Abner closed his burning eyes, and his mind—in a rare, lucid moment—savored an old dream. The same one he had tried to live tonight. Dreams of play openings, of gaiety, of respect, of position—the dream of the successful man he thought he had been.
Kit closed the door and slid the bolt. On the small table near the staircase, a pale oil lamp still burned. He removed his cloak and hung it on the hall tree, hanging Hallie’s cloak alongside. He walked over to the table and turned up the lamp wick. It was after four, and he was exhausted. They’d searched the theater and the surrounding area, but somehow Abner had slipped away. It ate at Kit, knowing that lunatic was still lurking around.
Using the lamp to light his way, he went upstairs. He entered the dark bedroom and set the lamp on the nearest table. His blanket sat on the chair—the one he’d been sleeping in.
The sound of Hallie’s even breathing drew his tired gaze. She slept soundly on one side of the bed, huddled in a lump underneath a mound of covers. Over half the bed was empty. He eyed the chair. Not tonight, he thought. He sat down and pulled off his dress boots, wondering just how mad Hallie would be when she found him in bed with her.
He sank back into the chair, releasing the studs from his shirt before reaching over to drop them on the table. He missed. The studs bounced and rolled, scattering on the wooden floor and reminding him of the last time they had done that, on the night he made love to Hallie. That sweet night when he’d learned that his passion hadn’t died, and the moment he admitted to himself that he wanted her, craved her, and needed to bury himself deep within her. And he had. But it had also been the same day he’d hurt her, both emotionally and physically.
Though their marriage arrangement was improving, she was still frightened of him, and that was not something he was proud of. He needed to erase the hurt and her sensual timidity. It was there, her fear, hovering around them whenever their passion flared. He’d felt it tonight, when he had kissed her hiccups away. The memory of that roaring case of hiccups made him smile.
On the way to the theater she’d sat quietly, as if intimidated, but later, when he’d teased her about the champagne, she’d plucked up and done exactly as she pleased, and he had a hunch that she’d done it just to defy him. Of course, as he well knew, liquor could make one do stupid things, whether out of false courage or, as in his case, crawling into the wrong bed. And crawling into bed was exactly what he was going to do right now.
Kit unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them off, adding them to the pile made by his discarded shirt and his thin boot socks. He started to remove his flannel small clothes but stopped. Maybe Hallie wouldn’t be as angry if he weren’t in bed buck naked. It was worth a try.
He walked around to the empty side of the bed and drew back his end of the covers. Slowly, he got into the warm, soft bed. It was heaven, and the muscles of his neck and back relaxed on a real mattress. It was almost as if they sighed with the forgotten comfort of a real, honest-to-goodness bed. An instant later he was sound asleep.
Abner opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep, crouched in the costume trunk, and had no idea how long he’d slept. The muscles of his legs were asleep. He listened intently. There was nothing but silence.
Very carefully, he wedged open the trunk and peered out through the crack. As the crack slowly widened, inch by inch, he watched, praying he wouldn’t be caught. The room was almost as dark as the interior of the trunk. No stage lamps were lit and there were no windows backstage to let in light or give him an idea of the time.
The theater appeared empty. He crawled out of the trunk, willing his tingly legs to support him. After a few moments respite, allowing the feeling to return to his legs and making sure he was truly alone, he walked over to the draped doorway, and peered into the black theater. It, too, was empty.
A narrow ell hid a small door. Abner carefully slid the bolt, and opening the door a crack, saw that it led outside, into the alley. He left, making his way to the street, where the pale glow in the east signaled dawn.
Twenty minutes later the pain was back. Abner leaned against a pier post, grabbing his middle in reaction to the stabbing ache that knifed up from deep in his bowels. He stumbled forward as the sharp pain subsided, but within s
econds another consumed him.
Stooped, he moved along the barrel pier that bobbed its way to the opium ship. Wave after painful wave ripped through his addicted body, and he grasped the rope rail, pulling himself past the storage ships out to the end of the wobbly pier where, in a dank hold, smoldering, black balls of relief awaited him.
His nose began to run, and he wiped it with the grimy sleeve of his woolen coat. Grasping the rope ladder, he climbed to the deck, and that was when he sneezed, over and over, as the recurring fit took control of his deteriorating body. Sneezing uncontrollably, he stumbled into the hold, heading for the brazier guarded by the old, hollow-eyed woman. Through eyes raining with tears, he grabbed the long needle that held the drug—his drug.
Again the pain came, starting at his rectum and serrating upward until his head throbbed with it. He sucked up the smoke, taking in quick, panting sips of the narcotic vapor that governed his mood and decayed his mind. He moved to a bunk, still drawing on the smoke, and laid down, sticking the needle into a hole whittled into the rough wood of the bunk. Then he stared, unseeing, while his mind painted rich, chimerical images that surpassed anything he could view with his watery eyes.
Automatically, he turned his head and inhaled, the deep needle holder having positioned the gummy ball conveniently near his musty pillow. He dreamed of wealth, parties, and balls; he dreamed of success, social acceptance, respect; he dreamed of his maternal estate, of his mother and the horses she loved, of the hunt.
And he remembered the trunk.
His teeth ground together until his jaw shook with anger, and his long fingers rolled into rock-hard fists. He was the hunted, the fox. Abner Moffatt Brown, forced to hide like a hunted animal. The dream metamorphosed into a nightmare where red-coated hunters surrounded him, screaming, “His father’s son! His father’s son!” Their screams became a chant, “Weakling . . . coward . . . failure . . .” The hunters’ hands held pistols, the butt end of each gun facing him as he cowered, and the hunters egged him to use the gun, as his father had.