He smiled, unable to help himself. “I understand. What did Mrs. Baldwin say?”
“She said yes, that was true, and that it wasn’t too bad, not really, but that she was certain that you would be very careful. I told her that it sounded very strange to me.”
“Did she say anything else?”
Jules nodded. “Yes, she said that it wasn’t strange really and that you were a doctor.”
“Those two things go hand in hand? I’d never considered that before.”
She saw the amusement in his eyes, and grinned. “Now that you mention it, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“Not an ounce,” he agreed. “Now, Jules, since you haven’t any ideas to speak of, I think I’ll go swimming.”
Saint decided that Jules’s idea of the male thing that was stuck into women had originated with him. At least Wilkes hadn’t paraded about in front of her naked. He suddenly remembered her few words about the sailors. She’d seen a sailor’s penis—the sailor who had raped Kanola, probably. He also wondered a few minutes later as he was stroking through the water if Jules would mind lovemaking with him. She certainly seemed interested. He hadn’t seen a patch of fear in her eyes when they’d spoken of her conversation with Mrs. Baldwin. Yes, he thought, she had all the frankness of a child, a child who had been desperately hurt. Despite the chill of the water, he felt himself harden. “Damned randy bastard,” he snarled at himself.
That evening, they strolled to the beach to watch the sunset. “I’ll miss this,” Jules said as the sun dipped finally over the horizon, casting the sky in vivid red for a few moments. “I feel a bit like Eve being tossed out of the Garden of Eden.”
Saint, who was wearing only a shirt and his cut-off pants, dropped down on the sand and leaned back on his elbows. “Do you cast me as Adam?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jules said, turning to stare down at him. “I didn’t corrupt you.”
“I don’t think you could corrupt anyone, even if you tried your damnedest.”
“I looked at you, very closely, Michael.”
He knew immediately what she was talking about. He said, “Yes, I know. Am I the only man you’ve ever seen with no clothes, Jules?”
She shook her head, a quick, dismissing gesture, and said, “You’re beautiful.”
“That’s a novel thing to say about a man, particularly a huge hairy beast like me. But I thank you.”
Jules looked away from him, out over the water. “You changed, even while I was watching you.”
Deep waters, he thought, shifting his weight a bit. “A man,” he said very carefully, “is very simple in terms of function. When he wants a woman, he becomes larger.”
“Yes,” she said, “you did.” She suddenly turned her large emerald eyes to his face. “Did you want me?”
“I think I just hoisted myself on that evil petard,” he said, striving for some humor. “What I should have said is that sometimes a man’s body reacts even when he doesn’t want it to. Sometimes a man can find himself very embarrassed, and for no reason at all.”
In the darkening evening light, he couldn’t make out the expression on her face, but he knew she’d stiffened.
“Jules,” he said quietly, “do you want me to make love to you?”
“You mean kiss me and touch me and stick—”
“Yes, all of that.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” She sighed, hugging her arms around her knees. “I guess I speak so openly to you because I know you won’t do anything to hurt me. Like John Bleecher.”
“No, I would never hurt you.”
“When I woke up this morning, I thought for just a moment that Jameson Wilkes had me again. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see John, and I feel that awful fear. Of all of it, I guess it’s the feeling of absolute helplessness, that because I’m a woman and not as strong, a man can do whatever he pleases to me. I hate that. It’s not . . . right.”
“No, it isn’t. But not many men are like that, Jules. Most men admire and respect women, just as I do. Shall I tell you what I would like?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I would like for you to trust me enough to tell me what happened to you during your time with Wilkes.”
He saw the frisson of distaste and fear contort her face, barely heard her whispered “No, oh, please no.” He made a vow to himself in that moment that he wouldn’t touch her until he could be certain she wouldn’t be disgusted by him, and afraid. He rose to his feet and dusted the sand off his clothes. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Jules, if ever you do want to talk about it, I’ll be around to listen.”
“All right,” she said in a small, thin voice. She watched him stride down the beach. She almost called him back. But she didn’t. Slowly she lowered her face and sobbed softly against her hands. If she told him, she knew he would hate her. He wouldn’t denounce her as her father had done, oh no. He would remain polite to her, and very kind. But she would disgust him, and she didn’t think she could bear to see the distaste for her in his eyes.
The next morning, Saint watched Jules speak to Kanola’s husband, a tall, sleek man who worked at the Government Market selling fresh meat. His name was Kuhio, and it was soon obvious to Saint that he blamed Jules for his wife’s death. They were speaking Hawaiian, but Saint could make out a few of Kuhio’s words: hoomanakii, ino, hookumakaia. And Jules saying over and over the word minamina, minamina. Something about her regret, her sorrow.
But Kuhio kept repeating that she was vain, wicked, sinful, a mistress of betrayal.
Finally Saint stepped between them, bowed to Kuhio, and took his wife’s limp hand. “Come,” he said.
“He told me that he wouldn’t let me near his children after what I’d done.”
“He’s grieving, that’s all. It is convenient for him to have you to blame.”
She raised wide, strained eyes to his face. “He told me that I was more wicked than my father had said on Sunday.”
“Stop it, Jules! . . . Oh, damn!”
“Well, if it isn’t my innocent little sister,” Sarah said, closing her parasol with an abrupt snap. “Were you speaking to Kuhio? You needn’t worry, Juliana, Father has given him money to recompense him for you killing his wife.”
We’re leaving tomorrow, Saint said over and over to himself. Jules won’t have to put up with this anymore. His hands clenched, but he couldn’t very well hit Jules’s sister, though in his mind, she deserved it.
Jules simply stared at her sister, her eyes bewildered and pleading.
Saint said now, his voice bland, “How well you’re looking, Sarah. I do hope that you and John Bleecher marry before your belly swells.”
Sarah gasped, then gave her sister a look of utter hatred. “You had to malign me too, didn’t you? You evil, wicked girl!”
“Of course,” Saint continued, smiling, “after you marry John, I imagine you’ll have to keep a keen eye on him. I do hope he doesn’t give you syphilis, Sarah.”
“You filthy creature! You deserve each other!”
“And I think, my dear, that you and John Bleecher will make the perfect couple. He can make love to you in the dark, then go find himself a helpless girl to force. Do send your sister a letter announcing the birth of your first child.”
“John will kill you for that!”
For the first time, Saint felt his rage get the better of him. “I would like to get my hands on that worthless little bastard,” he said, his voice evilly pleasant. “Again. Is he hiding his black-and-blue face?”
“Please, please, stop,” Jules whispered, grabbing her husband’s hand. “Sarah, you can’t mean all those things you said—”
“Shut up, Jules! No apologizing to this jealous bitch! Good day, Miss DuPres.”
Saint pulled her away with him, ignoring the startled, curious glances cast their way. Let them all gossip, he thought, it wouldn’t matter. Tomorrow they’d be gone.
They’d walked into Lahaina, and now they began their walk back
to Makila Point. Jules didn’t say a word.
Neither did Saint. What could he say?
Saint jerked awake, jumped to his feet, and ran into the small house. Jules was screaming, sobbing as if her heart were breaking.
“Jules,” he nearly shouted at her as he sat down beside her on the narrow bed. She was writhing, her body twisted in the single sheet that covered her. She cried out again, whispering, “No, oh God, no!”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Jules, wake up! Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”
Jules felt his hands on her, heard his man’s voice, and struggled wildly. “No, don’t touch me!”
He didn’t want to slap her as he’d done before, but he didn’t see much choice. He drew back his hand, then paused. He saw her eyes slowly open in the dim light, saw her blink. “Michael?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Yes, Jules. It’s all right now. You’re safe, with me.” Had he repeated the same words to her before?
She drew a shuddering breath, but she couldn’t seem to stem the sobs erupting from her throat. She couldn’t seem to break away from the awful dream.
“Jules, tell me. Tell me what you were dreaming.” He felt only a moment of guilt, using her vulnerability against her. But it was for the best, dammit. “Tell me.”
She gulped down the tears, and buried her face against his bare chest. “He tied me down on his bed, my arms and legs apart. He took all my clothes. He touched me and told me how lovely I was. He told me that he would keep me naked so I would get used to being looked at. He told me that the man who bought me would want me like this. Oh, God!”
“It’s all right,” Saint repeated, stroking her hair. “It’s all right now.”
It seemed as though the dam had burst, he thought, listening to her gasping little breaths, seeing through her eyes what had happened to her.
“He threatened me. He told me if I didn’t behave for him, he would bring in some of his men and let them play with me. He made me walk about in front of him naked. Then that night he drugged me, and put his hands on my breasts, and kissed them, and I felt so strange, and so frightened. He kept touching me . . . he never let me wear any clothes until that awful red gown. He told me he wanted to take me, but I was worth too much money to him as a virgin.” She suddenly reared back in his arms, her eyes wild. “I laughed at him and told him he was an ugly old man!”
“Good for you,” Saint said. “Well done, Jules.”
“I did it only once,” she said, more calmly now. “I was too frightened of him to put up much of a fight after that.” She buried her face against his chest again. “He even made me relieve myself in front of him, and bathe. I felt like a cheap, worthless . . . nothing. He wouldn’t stop fondling me! God, I hated his hands, and how he looked at me when he was touching me.”
He held her tightly against him, rocking her slightly. At least it was all out now. He knew the moment she got a hold on herself and came completely awake. He felt her stiffen.
“Jules,” he said sharply, shaking her, “no, don’t think what you’re thinking.”
She sniffed, then very slowly pulled away from him. He let her go and she sank back down on the pillow. She closed her eyes, thinking that even in the dark she could make out the disgust and distaste on his face. All because of a stupid nightmare. She turned her face away.
“Jules,” he said quietly, lightly touching his fingertips to her hair. “Do you feel better now?”
Feel better! She wanted to die.
He repeated his question.
Say something, you spineless idiot! “Yes,” she managed. “Please, Michael, I want to go back to sleep.”
She heard the bed creak as he rose. There was absolute silence for several moments, except for their breathing. He was staring at her—she knew it, she could feel the condemnation flowing from him to her.
Saint sighed, turned, and left the bedroom.
The next morning when he called her for breakfast, she sidled out of the bedroom as if she’d been hiding. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“We’re leaving this afternoon on the Oregon,” he said, toying with his bread.
She said nothing.
“Is there anything you would like me to fetch for you from your parents’ house?”
She raised her head, but still didn’t meet his eyes. “My surfboard is hidden behind the house.”
“Unfortunately, the water is too cold for surfboarding in San Francisco. I remember you were quite good at it.”
“Yes, I am. I will miss that wild feeling.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Kanola taught me when we were very young.”
This is no Garden of Eden, he thought. This is more like hell we’re escaping. He said sharply, “Enough, Jules. Your life has changed—neither you nor I can deny that. But everything will work out. I promise to be a good husband to you. I promise you’ll never starve.”
“If we’re ever on the edge,” she said, “you can always sell me to the highest bidder.”
He stood abruptly, his chair falling to the floor, and placed his splayed hands on the tabletop. “If you ever speak like that again, I will thrash you.” His anger was immense, but when he saw her flinch, it dissolved immediately. “And if you ever cower away from me, I’ll thrash you. Damn you, Jules, I am not Jameson Wilkes, nor am I John Bleecher!” She didn’t reply, but then again, he didn’t expect her to. He straightened, a bit chagrined by his display, and said more calmly, “Your brother will meet us at the dock.”
But Thomas wouldn’t meet them at the dock. Later that morning, Dwight Baldwin rode his swaybacked mare to the small house on Makila Point. “Saint,” he said. “Juliana.”
Saint shook his hand, saw the troubled look in his gray eyes, and said quietly, “What’s wrong, Dwight?”
Reverend Baldwin sent a worried look toward Jules.
“What’s wrong, sir?” she asked in a shrill voice, her body tensing.
“I’m sorry,” Dwight said. “Thomas was beaten up last night. No, no, he’ll be all right, but he’s in no shape to travel for a while.”
“His injuries?” Saint asked in a tight, controlled voice.
“No internal injuries, as best I can judge,” Dwight said. “But he’s got a couple of broken ribs, and a broken leg. He’ll need to stay in bed for several weeks.”
“Who did it?” Jules asked.
“John Bleecher and some of his friends. The bunch of them left the island early this morning, bound for Oahu. I suppose they’ll stay away until it’s forgotten. John’s father, when I spoke to him, claimed that his son was conducting some business for him on Oahu. He said his son had nothing to do with any of this and Thomas is a liar.” Actually, Elisha Beecher had been far more colorful in his speech.
“Is Thomas at home, sir?” Jules asked.
“Yes. Reverend DuPres is in something of a quandary,” he added. Saint knew exactly what he meant, but Jules, who was concentrating on her brother, didn’t seem to hear his words.
She said, “I must see him, Michael, before we leave.”
“Yes,” he agreed. Jesus, the last thing he wanted was to face her damned father again, but there was no hope for it.
He heard Jules whisper, “It’s my fault, all of it.”
12
Unfortunately, Saint saw, there were no signs of iodine on Reverend Etienne DuPres’s jaw.
“Get out and take my harlot of a daughter with you!” he shouted, and tried to slam the front door.
Saint, without much effort, pushed him back.
“It’s your fault,” Jules’s father yelled as he fell back, shaking his fist at Jules. “Your poor brother, beaten because he tried to protect you!”
“Ah, so now you will admit that John Bleecher attacked your daughter and not the other way around?”
“I admit nothing!”
“Father,” Jules said calmly, “I would like to see Thomas.”
Saint saw the man’s face flood with rage, and quickly said, “We will both see Thomas. A
fter all, he was to accompany us back to San Francisco today. Come, Jules.”
“No!” DuPres shouted. Saint shoved him aside as if he were naught to be bothered with. “You little slut—you should have been destroyed the moment you emerged from your mother’s womb!”
Saint turned at the foot of the stairs and said very calmly, “If you do not keep your mouth shut, sir, I will break your jaw. This time, I will ensure it is broken. Do you understand?” He took one menacing step toward the man.
“This is my house!”
“Fine,” Saint said. “Remember that this is also your daughter and that I, sir, am your son-in-law. I assure you, that fact is the only blot I know of in my family history.” He shook his head. “You really are quite a paltry man.”
He felt Jules’s hand on his sleeve, and turned to walk up the stairs with her. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. Ignore him. He is not . . . well.”
“I have come to realize that he is rather narrow,” Jules said. She gazed up at him a moment. “Even if your children were awful, you wouldn’t treat them like he treats me, would you?”
“If they looked like you, I’d give them huge bear hugs.”
Thomas managed a travesty of a grin when his sister and Saint came into his bedroom.
“Good Lord,” Saint said on a whistle, “you look colorful enough to become a country’s flag!” He walked to the bed, lifted Thomas’ hand, and took his pulse.
“I’ll live, Saint,” Thomas said. He winced slightly when Saint gently placed his hand on his belly and pressed here and there.
“Yes,” Saint said, “you most certainly will—we need more good doctors. I’m taking Jules away today, Thomas. You of all people understand that she must leave. I am leaving money with Reverend Baldwin. When you are well enough, you will book passage and come to San Francisco. All right?”
Thomas closed his eyes a moment and choked down his tears. “Yes, Saint,” he managed. “God, everything has been such a muddle, and now this!”
“I know. Now, tell your sister that you’re going to live.” Saint rose and stood aside.
“Stop looking at me as if I were on my last legs, Jules,” Thomas said to his white-faced sister. “Don’t be a fool . . . come on now. I’m fine, just fine. Don’t you believe your husband? I’ll be with you in a month, you’ll see.” The spate of words exhausted him, and he laid his head back heavily on the pillow.
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