“You must’ve gotten a lot of work done.” Their mother unfastened the front of Amethyst’s cape and swept it aside, the hem stirring dirt off the driveway. “Needlepoint and reading. Perhaps some tatting.”
“Some.” Amethyst blinked, as if she had no idea what tatting meant—Jeremiah assumed it was one of the needlecraft activities his mother did in the evenings.
Her dress hung straight; at least she’d known better than to wear a hoop. The sleeves laced to her elbows and the front pinned from waist to bosom, where a lace chemise poked over the low neckline. A silver charm hung from a choker of indigo velvet.
“Come inside.” Their father cupped her elbow, tugging her toward the front door. “There’s some lemonade prepared. We can sit in the back garden and talk.”
“You can tell us about New Addison City,” Zachariah added.
“Where things are wonderful.” Now, her smile appeared genuine, wicked even.
Jeremiah scratched the stubble on his chin. If she hadn’t wanted to come, she should’ve whined her way out of it.
She paused on the front porch to face him. “Good afternoon, brother.” Cold. Unattached. Yet, with an emotion underneath it, as if she pleaded with him for something.
He studied her from beneath his lashes. Straight back, stiff shoulders, pursed lips. What could she want? Knowing Amethyst, it would be something trivial, like a compliment.
“You look pretty.” He made his tone sound as detached as hers.
She walked across the porch to bend over him, her lips to his cheek. Her breath, scented with peppermint, tickled his ear. “Tell me how dangerous it is. Order me to go home.”
Home—back to New Addison City. He stared at the field beyond the driveway where the horses grazed. So, that was her motive. “Sorry, sister. You’re here now. You figure out how to leave before winter.”
He loosened the leather ties on the front of his blouse to let the air tickle his chest and cool his skin. If he helped, he’d be cheating on his bet. Besides, she didn’t need him.
A steamcycle rumbled toward the ranch. Their parents turned to the driveway, while Zachariah slid his arm through Amethyst’s. “I’ll show you the back garden. Mother’s done a wonderful job with it—considering our dry climate.”
The vehicle swerved along the driveway and halted in front of the porch. Jeremiah frowned. The boy from the hay field had shown up after all. He pulled off his hat and goggles before sliding off the leather seat of his steamcycle. Leaving his gear hanging from the handlebars, he strutted toward the Treasures.
“Howdy.” The young man ran his fingers through his shaggy hair.
Amethyst sucked in a breath. Jeremiah glanced at her, chuckling when he saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Leave it to his sister to flirt with every guy she came upon.
“Can we help you?” Jeremiah’s father asked.
“Are you Captain Garth Treasure?”
Master Treasure removed his hat and nodded. “That I am.”
The young man wiped his palms on his denim pants and held out his right hand. “Then it’s high time you met me. I’m Clark Treasure, your bastard son.”
lark flexed his arms, his biceps pressing against the sleeves of his leather jacket, as he faced the Treasures. He’d rehearsed what he would say to them every night as he camped in a Bromi tent, and those hadn’t been the words. The real words—“I’d like to sit down to discuss something important”—had more of a professional ring.
One of the Bromi men who’d sheltered him from the army had suggested approaching unarmed and naked.
“You will be yourself,” the native had said. “He will have nothing to fear from a man who bares himself, open to attack, fully trusting his words.”
Showing up naked might work for the Bromi tribes that lived off the cliffs, but other men might find it unsettling.
Master Treasure stared at Clark with flared nostrils, as though smelling him for confirmation of his claim. Could this man be his father? Yellow hair peeked from beneath the ten-inch high top hat, and beneath the rim shown blue eyes. Clark recognized his features there, as seen in his mother’s cracked mirror. Master Treasure also had his six-foot height and broad shoulders, unmistakable beneath his black suit. Clark had never seen shoes that shone so brightly, nor a diamond-encrusted pocket watch like the one the man wore in his front jacket pocket. Those were definitely not Clark-worthy. He’d never owned something that clean or costly.
Clark swung his gaze to the woman, Mistress Treasure, who clung to her husband’s arm. Her wide, gray eyes appeared to glisten with tears. A silver chain rested on her forehead and draped around her pale brown chignon. Her green dress hung straight to the porch, with a lace-trimmed bodice and tight sleeves that ended in V’s over her middle fingers. The other wealthy women he’d seen wore corsets that kept their waists mere inches wide and skirts hung out with outrageous hoops. Even his mother, in all her frills and bows, looked as if she wore a costume. This woman, although elegant, appeared serviceable, reliable.
The young man at her side, with his brown hair and gray eyes, had his jaw hanging open. Clark stiffened, his hands tightening into fists. The man wore a soldier’s cap, but not the full uniform. Instead, his suit matched Master Treasure’s. One of the rich soldiers, then, who never served the country, but used the title for personal gain. Clark peeled back his upper lip in a sneer before catching himself. Enemies wouldn’t help him explain his point. At least as a soldier in title only, he wouldn’t be a threat to Clark’s anonymity.
The other young man on the porch was the one he’d met in the field, wearing the same clothes, and stretched out in a chair. Like the other boy, they matched Master Treasure in height. It could go either way with this fellow. He might be an ally, since he seemed smart enough, or he might be an enemy, the temper apparent in his scowl.
Then, the yellow-haired girl. She covered her mouth with one hand. Was she about to vomit? That had to be improper.
Laughter bubbled up from within her. She rocked back on her heels and pressed her hands over her stomach.
“Amethyst,” Mistress Treasure exclaimed. “Hush. Don’t be rude.”
“I thought this was going to be a terrible bore.” Amethyst dragged her fingers over Mistress Treasure’s arm. “I love it. How did you know to hire an actor to liven up my homecoming?”
Clark smiled. Could she be his sister? Her giggle reminded him of young Mable’s from the saloon. He’d never had a sibling, and even though he’d known Master Treasure had legitimate offspring, he’d never considered them as being close relatives.
Master Treasure coughed. “Excuse me, lad. Who paid you to come here?”
Clark slid his hands into his pockets. He’d expected that question and had rehearsed the answer. “No one, sir. I came by myself.”
Mistress Treasure clicked her tongue. “Nonsense. This must be a joke.”
“No, ma’am.” Clark patted his pocket. “I have proof. From my mother.” They wouldn’t turn him away without an argument.
“Perhaps we should go inside. There’s some lemonade, isn’t there?” Amethyst swung the front door open. “I, for one, am quite parched.”
Master Treasure stepped down the porch to stand in front of Clark. Clark stared him in the eyes, unwilling to flinch. If he backed down, the man might never think of him as an equal. He wouldn’t get another chance to prove his worth. Clark’s heart thudded in his chest, but he breathed through his nose to calm his nerves. A son of Master Treasure’s had to be worthy of the surname.
“Come into my study.” Master Treasure spoke in a soft voice, little more than a whisper. He inclined his head before striding inside. That could be a good sign. If they wanted to dismiss him, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of inviting him in.
Clark drew a deep breath before he followed, careful to keep his steps slow, deliberate. Jogging might make him appear desperate. The younger Treasures watched him pass, the soldier gaping and the field one scowling deeper. Amethyst kept laughing. Mis
tress Treasure trailed behind Cark, her skirt clutched in her hands to avoid tripping.
The foyer opened into a grand room with a marble floor and a crystal chandelier. Portraits hung on the beige walls and a wide staircase, carpeted in maroon velvet, occupied the right, while the left contained a door opening into the front parlor. A Bromi slave stood in the corner of the grand room, bowed at the waist, staring at his shoes.
Master Treasure led the way through the parlor into a room in the back. Clark watched his rear side to avoid ogling the interior. This joint belonged in a major city, not the middle of untamed Hedlund. Sure, it was a ranch, so they had money…but this? He’d never been anywhere so amazing.
Clark kept his hands jammed in his pockets so they couldn’t say he’d swiped anything.
If they accepted him, he could have all of this. Excitement raised the hairs on his arms. He wouldn’t have to work odd jobs that paid in pennies, worrying if he’d have a next meal. No more rags. He’d gone without food and shelter to save enough for this outfit to make himself appear presentable.
No more running. The army wouldn’t dare to touch a Treasure.
Master Treasure held the door open for Clark and Mistress Treasure to pass through. Clark blinked at the office, where floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the parts of the walls not occupied with windows. Brocade curtains were drawn back; the view overlooked the veranda and a field.
Master Treasure reclined in the chair behind the desk and folded his hands across his lap. “Sit. Please.”
Clark kept his gaze locked with… his father’s. The thought sent a shiver across his skin. This happened; it wasn’t a joke or sick dream. Forbidding his limbs to shake, Clark sat in one of the high-backed chairs facing the desk. Mistress Treasure perched in the one beside him.
“We will start at the beginning,” Master Treasure said. “How old are you and where were you born?”
Clark kept his voice steady. “I’m eighteen years old, born in Tangled Wire. You have a mine there.”
Master Treasure nodded, and he folded his hands over his stomach, constrained by a blue velvet jacket with brass buttons. “I have many mines throughout the state of Hedlund. Tell me about your mother.”
“Judith Kurjaninow. Her father built steamcoaches until he and her mother died. Train accident. She was fifteen.”
“Judith Kurjaninow,” Mistress Treasure repeated. Her gaze lingered on her husband, as if gauging his reaction to the name. Clark eyed the desk instead of her. It would have to be tearing her apart to know her husband hadn’t been faithful.
“She responded to an ad for a waitress in Tangled Wire,” Clark continued. “It turned out to be a brothel. You were her first customer.”
When she’d described it, she’d shivered.
‘Garth Treasure didn’t look at me like I was dirty,’ she’d said. ‘The place was horrible, but he made me know I couldn’t help where life put me.’
For that alone, Clark would always be grateful to the man who’d given him life.
“Over nineteen years ago,” Master Treasure mused. “I would’ve just been opening the mine there. I stayed for a couple months and kept returning to make sure things ran smoothly.”
Clark admired how straight Mistress Treasure remained. He’d expected her to succumb to hysterics when he told his tale.
“You got my mother pregnant,” Clark stated. “You left her money and this letter.” He peeled the letter from his pocket and smoothed the well-worn creases. As a child, he’d begged his mother to read it to him instead of telling bedtime stories. A photograph rested in the middle—Master Treasure as a younger man. Clark passed both over the desk.
Master Treasure read the letter in silence, then handed both the paper and photo to his wife. Clark had memorized the words. Master Treasure apologized for not being able to marry her, but would give her enough money to survive and take care of the child.
“You left before I was born,” Clark added.
“Where is your mother now?” Mistress Treasure asked.
“A soldier killed her.” The truth would help explain his avoidance of the military. They wouldn’t question an army man killing a Tarnished Silver. Mining town whores didn’t hold much esteem. The Treasures wouldn’t need to know she’d been killed over a potion meant to raise the dead.
“So, then you came here seeking a home,” Master Treasure whispered.
Seeking protection. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” Mistress Treasure laid the items on the desk as she stared at her husband. “Is this true?”
Clark held his breath. If Master Treasure denied his claims, Clark had no other proof. They could have him arrested for fraud.
They may not give back his belongings.
Master Treasure sighed. “I never thought this would come up again.”
“So….” Clark trailed off. Something had to happen now. They had to say something else.
“It’s true.” Master Treasure glanced at his wife before he stood. “Welcome home.”
methyst winked at the young man seated across from her at the dinner table. If any man alive was noble enough not to sire a bastard, it would be Garth Treasure, her father. This boy—Clarence or Claremont or whatever he claimed for a name—couldn’t be her brother. Her father would’ve needed to bed his whore mother between Amethyst and Zachariah. As far as she knew, her parents hadn’t fought. She hadn’t been born then, but surely their life had been as perfect as it was now.
“I apologize for my transgression.” Garth stood at the head of the table holding a crystal goblet of red wine.
Why hadn’t the servants offered her any? Despite the entertainment with the bastard business, she would’ve loved a glass of the tart stuff. Amethyst wrinkled her nose at the cup of water beside her porcelain plate of…farm fare. She poked her fork into the mashed potatoes to make a river for the melted butter; if anyone in the city had offered her mashed potatoes, she would’ve laughed in their face. The wealthy ate potato cubes with garlic gloves, ricotta cheese, and parsley flakes, served in hand painted bowls. The china her mother had chosen for the meal had printed blue lines from a factory, as if they were commoners. Her father could afford any porcelain he wanted.
“Father, you really went to a brothel?” Zachariah sputtered. His face reddened above the buttoned collar of his silk shirt.
Amethyst tapped her painted fingernails against her lips to stifle a chuckle. Zachariah had never looked so pale before. Didn’t he know what real men did? In the city, men had birthday parties at the more upscale pleasure houses. It didn’t mean they were unfaithful to their intendeds or brides—it was just once a year or only one night.
It wasn’t that Garth had taken a whore, but that he hadn’t known enough to use a rising wrap, that burnished her nerves. Rubbers weren’t that expensive.
“For shame, Father,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman was a country whore; she might’ve had the pox. Garth Treasure could’ve taken his pick of upscale Tarnished Silvers who were safe.
Her father stared into his wine. “We’re all adults. I apologize if this offends my women’s delicate ears, but it must be said. Yes, I visited one of those establishments. I had recently opened a new mine in Tangled Wire and I was young, restless. A friend of mine,” he lifted his gaze to meet his wife’s eyes, “egged me on, so to speak. I stayed for a few months to make sure the mining operation progressed smoothly. Clark’s mother approached me before I left to admit she was with child.”
Clark. Right, his name. Amethyst winked at him to coax a smile, but the young man stared at Garth as though he were suffocating and her father held all the oxygen. Perhaps Garth did, only with gold, not air. Anyone would want to be related to Garth for a bit of that fortune.
“How do we know he isn’t lying?” Jeremiah glared at Clark. Her older brother’s face resembled a beet in coloring. Veins protruded from his thick neck and sunburned brow. Didn’t Jeremiah know how unfashionable a ta
n was, let alone such dark burns? The city would ridicule him to no end.
“This letter.” Garth tapped it where it rested near his plate. “I remember writing it to the young woman. It even has my picture. Besides,” Garth rested his hand on Clark’s shoulder, “he looks like me.”
Amethyst choked on a giggle. Jeremiah must have loved Clark sitting at Garth’s left instead of him, the heir. Sure, Clark could inherit some, but as a bastard, it could only be a small sum in the eyes of the law since Garth already had three legitimate children. Whatever Clark received would be from Garth’s kindness.
“You can’t really believe this.” Jeremiah rose with his fists on his hips. “Mother, tell me you recognize how stupid this is.”
“Jere, stop.” Their mother stroked Garth’s hand where he held his drink. “I know this is all a shock, and while we wish your father had mentioned this sooner, we can’t ignore it now. The past is there, but we can make amends. I’m glad you’re here, Clark. You belong with us. Family.”
“He’s not family,” Jeremiah spat.
Clark winced. He didn’t seem the type to make up an elaborate lie. Amethyst had seen that type—lots of flattery amongst the oiled words. Clark seemed genuine. He didn’t throw in extra words to make himself seem more trustworthy. It shone through his calm, but nervous, demeanor. He kept licking his upper lip. She’d spotted that tic before when playing cards in the gaming establishments.
What fun it would be to hit a club. The music could play so loud the walls vibrated as if about to cave in. It could be one of the dark clubs, where the girls wore black wings over thigh-short dresses and the men sported masks with their suits. Did “fun” exist in Hedlund?
She peered out the floor-to-ceiling dining room windows, at the fields stretching over their land, and sighed. No night club, then. Bullocks.
Garth set his goblet down. “Clark is exactly that. Family. I want you to treat him the exact same way you do each other. Family belongs together. He may only be joining us now, but that doesn’t mean he should be shunned.”
Treasure, Darkly (Treasure Chronicles Book 1) Page 3