Young Du Gard was an expert with guns, the stories claimed, who had been going out into the woods to hunt ever since he was ten years old. But crushed by Elena Lopez’ refusal to become his wife, unable to endure life any longer without the woman he loved, he had fetched his shotgun, bid his father farewell and wandered off into the woods to die. He had made his death seem “accidental” to spare pain to those he loved, they wrote. The stories were extremely convincing, and there were dark moments when I believed them myself.
I walked slowly through the park. Millie had wanted to come with me, still worried about the state I was in, but I had insisted she stay home. I had a lot of thinking to do.
I wanted to believe Phillipe’s death had been an accident, but grave doubts assailed me. I kept remembering that final goodbye, that final smile, and deep inside I realized that suicide was a very real possibility. Phillipe had been so very sensitive, and he had been very unhappy. Always considerate of others, he would have left no note, and he would indeed have made his death look like an accident. Suicide or not, I knew in my heart that if I had agreed to marry him he would still be alive. He would still be smiling that boyish smile, radiating youth and innocence and goodness.
I paused beside one of the plane trees, and the lawn stretching before me became a hazy jade green blur. I hadn’t intended to cry, but the tears came of their own accord, spilling down my cheeks in tiny streams. I let them flow, giving way to my grief this one last time. I allowed myself to think of him as he had been when I first knew him, and for several minutes the pain was almost unbearable. It swept over me in waves, but time passed and finally I drew myself up, wiped the tears away and took control.
I had to make some kind of plans for my own future. I could always take another engagement. The theatrical managers had been almost as persistent as the journalists during those empty weeks. The new “scandal” made Elena Lopez an even greater attraction, and I knew I could name my price. I didn’t relish the idea. I was weary of glamorous engagements and plush surroundings and sophisticated friends and newspaper headlines and all that went with it. I wanted something new and different, something fresh and exciting, something that would present a challenge. I wouldn’t find it in Paris. I doubted that I-would find it anywhere in Europe.
I wanted to forget, and in order to forget there would have to be a complete change. America was the answer, of course. I had been thinking about it quite a lot. It was probably insane even to consider Anthony’s proposition, but nevertheless I had considered it, and under the circumstances it seemed the perfect solution. It would certainly be a challenge. I would never have dreamed of undertaking such a venture before, not with Anthony Duke, but now … Millie would leap at the chance to go, I knew. We would probably end up stranded in some wretched frontier town swarming with gunslingers, but it would be a grand adventure.
I moved on down the walkway, lost in thought, and then I looked up and saw him sauntering across the lawn toward me. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I was imagining things, but even in the distance that tall, slender figure and that jaunty walk were unmistakable. He wore a dapper new tobacco brown suit and a dashing brown-and-cream striped satin waistcoat, his neckcloth dark, dull orange. He was spruce and neat and shining, the picture of success. M. Hulot’s first check had obviously arrived. As I watched him approach I assumed a cool, haughty composure that belied the elation stirring within me.
“Here you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over. Do you realize how bloody big this park is?”
His manner was extremely casual, as though our encounter had all been arranged. So I, too, maintained a distant demeanor, refusing to give way to his abundant charm so dangerously seductive.
“Surprised to see me?” he inquired.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He grinned that familiar grin that was so irritating and so enchanting. “Millie told me. I had to choke the information out of her. Enjoyed it thoroughly. Just as her face was about to turn purple she spluttered and gasped and confessed you’d come for a walk in the park.”
It was a preposterous exaggeration, but that was Anthony.
“Minx has been trying to keep me from seeing you for the past two-and-a-half weeks, and I’d had enough.”
“You—you’ve been trying to see me?”
“I’ve come to the house at least a dozen times. The little hussy refused to let me in.”
“She never mentioned it.”
“Should have finished the job while I had my hands around her throat,” he muttered. “Don’t know why you want to take up with her again, luv. She thinks she’s your mother!”
“Millie loves you, too.”
Anthony smiled, and then he looked grave.
“Look—uh—I—” He paused, clearly embarrassed. “I was sorry to hear about young Du Gard, Elena. Rotten thing to happen. I know it must have hit you pretty hard. Those wretched stories in the papers and all. I’m truly sorry.…”
There was sincerity in his voice. I could tell he meant it.
“It’s been—pretty dreadful,” I confessed.
“I’d like to murder some of those chaps,” he said darkly. “No respect for your feelings at all. I’m taking you away from all this, luv. We’re going to leave Paris as soon as possible.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going to America. I’ve made all the arrangements. The book’s a smash, and by the time our ship docks in New York it will have come out over there, too. Everyone in America will be clamoring to see you.”
“I thought I told you I wasn’t—”
“We’ll tour the Eastern Seaboard,” he continued, “and then we’ll sail around the Horn and go to California. It’s going to be terrific! Just like old times.”
“Just like old times,” I said dryly.
“They weren’t so bad, you know.”
“I can just see it. You’ll play the tyrant, bossing everyone around. You’ll handle all the money and lose it in some improbable investment—a gold mine with no gold, a cattle ranch with no cattle.”
“You don’t have much confidence in me, do you?”
“None at all,” I replied.
“I’m hurt,” he said, “deeply hurt, but I’m going to rise above it. Come on, let’s go back to the house. We’ve got a lot to discuss. I know you’re going to argue, but you might as well save your breath. I’ve been working on this for weeks.”
“Have you? What a shame. I have no intention of going to America with you—or anywhere else for that matter.”
“You don’t mean that, luv.”
I didn’t, but he’d have to work to discover it. He took hold of my elbow and guided me toward the boulevard, confident of his ability to make me do his bidding. I felt that marvelous stimulation he always inspired, and it was like a glorious tonic. Anthony was right. I was going to argue. I was going to put up a grand fight. In the end he would have his way, of course, but the victory would be all mine.
CALIFORNIA 1853
XXXIX
The gunfire no longer disturbed me. I had grown used to it. From my window, I peered down at the sea of mud that passed for a street. There were no bodies lying there, but a drunken miner stood in front of the Chinese laundry firing his pistol into the air while the pigtailed proprietor and his wife huddled in the doorway. Three tough-looking, bearded men in boots, faded blue breeches and plaid shirts rushed out of the saloon, then scurried back through the swinging doors as the miner yelled and pointed his gun at them. After a moment he burst into laughter, took an unsteady step forward and tumbled face first into the mud.
I sighed and moved away from the window. Such scenes were not at all unusual in the rugged mining towns we had been touring for the past eight weeks. Gunfire, fist fights, saloon brawls that spilled out into the street were common fare. Thank goodness this was the last town on our tour and we were leaving for San Francisco this morning. I had given my final performance the night before on a tiny stage in a salo
on packed full of rowdy men who stomped, yelled, fired at the ceiling, guzzled bottles of whiskey and, as I took my bows, showered the stage with gold and silver coins. The rain of coins occurred in every mining town I played, an added bonus that brought joy to the heart of my manager and filled me with terror. I was delighted to receive the extra revenue—often the amount thrown on stage was almost as much as that taken in at the box office—but dodging the flying coins was hazardous.
Moving to the wardrobe, I took down the last dress, folded it and placed it in the large leather traveling bag that stood open on the bed. I wondered where Millie could possibly be. It was almost eight thirty, and the coach was due to pick us up in front of the hotel at nine. She hadn’t shown up for breakfast, and I hadn’t seen her since she helped me dress for last night’s performance. I wasn’t worried, not really. Though the mining towns were dangerous, filled with riffraff from all over the world and virtually lawless, Millie invariably had a personal bodyguard of ardent suitors. In a territory where women were still scarce and even the plainest was avidly courted, she was having the time of her life.
Millie adored California. She adored the excitement, the noise, the raw pioneer atmosphere that prevailed throughout most of the state. I, too, found it fascinating, but a little disconcerting. It certainly provided a contrast to the rest of the country we had visited. New York, Philadelphia, Boston and the other eastern cities were surprisingly sophisticated, and the southern cities had a special charm that won me over immediately. But California was unlike anything I had ever seen. There was incredible vitality, a sense of newness in the air, a feeling that anything at all was possible.
Closing the suitcase and fastening it, I glanced around the room to see if I had forgotten anything. The hotel, which had been hastily thrown up four years ago, was already run down and decrepit. My “suite” consisted of a sitting room with a bare wooden floor and lumpy sofa, and a bedroom with tarnished brass bed, battered wardrobe and unsteady dressing table with a spotty mirror hanging over it. In Europe, such a hotel would have been avoided as a slum. Here it was sheer luxury, and its rates were higher than those charged by the grandest hotels in Paris. Still, it was better than sleeping in a pitched tent, and we had done that on more than one occasion on this tour.
I heaved the bag onto the floor and, pulling a small black leather jewel case from under the bed, set it on the dressing table. Although we had left most of our trunks in storage in San Francisco, I had refused to travel without my jewelry. Not that I wore any of it—not in these lawless mining towns—but I wanted to have it with me just in case. The past two-and-a-half years of touring had been very successful financially, but a great deal of the money had been eaten up by expenses. I had managed to put money in banks in both New York and New Orleans, it was true, but the amounts weren’t all that large, and the jewelry Karl had given me remained a form of insurance. I wasn’t about to leave it with any storage company.
There was more gunfire outside, more yelling and the sound of horses galloping through the mud. I didn’t even bother going to the window but, instead, examined myself in the dull silver mirror with its murky bluish-gray spots. I had pulled my hair back sleekly and fastened it in a French roll, leaving a large fishhook curl over each temple. I wore a gown of deep maroon satin, which was hardly a suitable garment for traveling by coach over thirty miles of rugged terrain, but Anthony had cautioned me to look my best when we arrived in San Francisco. I was eager to get back to the city of hills, for I had seen precious little of it the first time I was there.
Our ship, the Northener, had entered the harbor on the twenty-first of May, and Anthony had smuggled Millie and me to the hotel. My presence in the city was to be kept secret while he arranged a future engagement at the American Theater, set up the tour of the mining towns and made valuable contacts with the press. The tour would provide just the right “build up” for the San Francisco debut, he informed me. Thanks to his showmanship and knack for publicity, I had created a sensation in each town we played. Journalists following me from town to town supplied the San Francisco papers with dozens of sensational stories about the celebrated Elena Lopez. When I was ready to perform in San Francisco, the whole town would be clamoring to see me, Anthony claimed. He had planned everything carefully, working hand-in-hand with the gentlemen of the press.
And so, Anthony had left for San Francisco immediately after the final saloon performance—that is, immediately after the last coin was collected, counted and added to the box office take. Because of the large amount of cash he would be carrying to place in a San Francisco bank, he had decided to travel by night, on horseback, an armed guard riding at his side. Since the countryside was swarming with bandits, Anthony felt Millie and I would be much safer traveling by coach in broad daylight. A rifleman would be perched up on the seat next to the driver, ready to blast away at the first sign of trouble. I wasn’t too worried about bandits—so far, we had traveled all over this part of the state without being robbed—but I was thankful for the precaution nevertheless.
Stepping back from the mirror, I pulled on one of my long black lace gloves. I didn’t like being separated from Anthony even for a day, but I was confident that he knew best. He planned to deposit the money in the bank, first, and then make arrangements for my “welcome” to the city later in the day. There would undoubtedly be huge crowds to greet my coach, dozens of dignitaries, perhaps even a brass band. Anthony knew his job, and during the past two-and-a-half years he had proved himself a shrewd and brilliantly capable manager. I had played extended engagements in all the major cities and most of the large towns on the Eastern seaboard, and then the tour had continued on through the South. The show, which was an enormous success everywhere, played a three-month engagement in New Orleans to packed houses. After that ended, we boarded the ship that brought us around the Cape to California.
I pulled on the other glove and smoothed it over my elbow. I had very few complaints about the way Anthony had handled things. He still tried to bully me on occasion, but for the most part his manner was considerate and extremely protective. I had come to depend on the rogue, and he was the most important person in my life at the moment, even though I wasn’t in love with him. I loved him in a way, I couldn’t deny that, but there was no deep emotional attachment. I knew him far too well for that. I had gone out with other men during the tour, and Anthony had dazzled countless women along the way, but none of this affected our basic relationship. We fought, we made love now and then, and we enjoyed each other’s company. I nevertheless kept my guard up with him, and he maintained an attitude of casual fondness with me.
A knock on the sitting room door announced the hotel clerk who came to take my bag downstairs. He started to take the jewel case as well, but I told him I would attend to that myself. With a nod, he carried the bag out, exiting just as Millie burst into the room, bright and lively and full of enthusiasm which, this morning, I could definitely do without. Looking fetching in a sky blue muslin frock printed with small black polka dots, and her blue eyes sparkling, Millie had a soft pink flush on her cheeks, suggesting that she, at least, had not spent the night alone.
“All ready to go?” she asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Oh dear, you’re in a bad mood.”
“Getting up at seven o’clock in the morning isn’t my idea of bliss. I didn’t sleep well last night. All that noise.”
“I think there was a fire. Someone said a storehouse burned down. Have you had breakfast?”
I nodded. “The bacon tasted like strips of broiled leather, the coffee like muddy water. And had they been dropped on the floor, the scrambled eggs would’ve bounced like yellow rubber balls. I didn’t see you downstairs.”
“I skipped breakfast this morning.”
Millie smiled her pixie smile and stretched languorously, looking as if she were a sleek, tawny cat that had just lapped up a bowl of cream. Millie had decided that it was time to find herself a husband, and
she had been shopping for just the right one ever since our arrival in California. Apparently, she felt it was a delightful occupation, for it kept her in splendid spirits, and Millie definitely believed in the value of comparison. Fancy free, capricious, she had left a string of rejected suitors in her wake, enchanting each briefly and then moving on in pursuit of some ideal.
“You needn’t look so pleased with yourself,” I snapped.
“His name was Frank,” she informed me. “Such shoulders, and a smile you couldn’t resist. He begged me to marry him.”
“And?”
“Another reject,” she sighed. “No ambition, poor dear. He’d be content to work as a ranch foreman for the rest of his life. Sometimes I think I’ll never find the right man,” she added. “It’s so frustrating.”
I was unable to resist a smile. Millie smiled back and sauntered over to the window to look down at the street. I heard horses and splattering mud, and a whip cracking as a husky voice cried “Whoa!” Millie, pushing a tumble of curls from her temple, told me that the coach had just pulled up. I picked up my jewel case, and we left the room to descend the wooden staircase into the lobby. As I glanced around at the shabby flowered carpet, dusty plants and peeling mahogany desk, I breathed a sigh, thankful to be leaving.
Four stout horses stamped impatiently in the mud as the hotel clerk helped the driver secure our bags on top of the coach. The worn brown cumbersome vehicle was liberally caked with mud. A crusty-looking old-timer with beard and fringed leather jacket sat up on the seat in front, rifle across his knees. Millie and I exchanged glances. Anthony had told us we would have our own private coach. I should have known he would hire the cheapest he could find.
“Charming,” she said.
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