Maud O’Flynn seemed also not to have understood that, as his mistress, she had no rights, that she could be discarded as easily as a scuffed pair of shoes or an unfashionable hat. She had believed it could never happen to her. But it had. Mara’s face flamed even now, eleven years later, as she remembered the humiliation of it all. The packing, the giving up of prized possessions that suddenly were no longer theirs.
Few such liaisons end in friendship, without scars, and where love had once blossomed only bitter hatred remained. Maud was broken by her own dreams, forgotten by a man to whom she’d given more of herself than he’d asked for—or had wanted.
Disappointed in her bid to reestablish herself on the stage, finding it unbearable when the roles she coveted were offered to younger women, Maud found comfort in a succession of lovers. Never satisfied, Maud took to traveling, never stopping long enough to create new memories—or to let the shadows of the past catch up with her.
And what of Brendan and herself? Mara asked with remembered pain. Did they no longer have a father, now that he had disclaimed the relationship with their mother? How easy it had been for him to discard them, for they had no legal hold on him. They didn’t even bear his name. Mara wondered if he even remembered them.
Maud O’Flynn had died in Paris, her once beautiful face coarsened by hard living and marred by bitterness. The voluptuous curves of her body had blurred and faded until she seemed like a scarecrow. Fever and cough racking her thin form, she finally found her long-searched-for peace in the silence of a cold, February morning. A bleak sun had risen over the rooftops of Paris as twelve-year-old Mara stood before the window, a crack in the glass of one of the dusty panes letting in a small draught of cold air.
Without turning to look into the room behind her, Mara knew what she would see: Brendan weeping against their mother’s thin chest that was stilled forever; Jamie huddled in a chair muffling her sobs; the paint chipped and peeling from the walls; and the rough wood furniture in the cheap little room that had become the final resting place of Maud O’Flynn, a once-beautiful Irish actress.
Mara had remained dry eyed as she continued to stare out of the window. Why should she cry now that her mother was finally released from a tormented existence? Maud O’Flynn would no longer be forced to look into the mirror and see her haggard face and ask for the thousandth time, “Why?” But Mara’s resolution had nearly failed as she heard Brendan’s agonized cries. They had torn her heart from her. Never again did she want to hear a man cry as Brendan had.
As Mara stared at the tragic drama being enacted in that shabby room, at the ugliness which would be her last memory of her mother, she swore that she would never give anyone the opportunity to hurt her as her father and other men had hurt her mother. A vow made by a child, but it was as devoutly made as any priest’s.
Brendan had been nineteen that year, and because he knew no other way of earning a living, he followed Maud’s footsteps and went on the stage. From then on, the theater had been their life. They traveled to London or Paris, always searching for a better job, and one they hoped would last longer than opening night.
In fact, it had been after their last theatrical engagement, which had been short-lived and had stranded them in Paris without funds, that Brendan had created his latest scheme. Mara had thought he had lost his mind when he had run into their lodgings, a newspaper clutched in his hand, his eyes alight with something she’d not seen in them before. It was a lust not unlike that when he gazed upon a beautiful woman, and yet even that had not been the all-consuming fire that she’d seen in them in that instant.
Gold had been discovered in California. Well, that had meant nothing to her, Mara remembered, for she had never even heard of this place called California. It was on the far side of the United States of America and stretched nearly the length of the coast along the Pacific Ocean, Mara learned from Brendan as he knowledgeably recited the information he’d overheard from others. People were getting rich out there, making fortunes that’d make even a king’s ransom look cheap.
And so had begun the fever. Brendan was crazed with the desire to go to this golden land, and the cold facts that they had no money for such a venture did nothing to cool his ardor. But it seemed as though luck had ridden on Brendan O’Flynn’s shoulder as he had haunted the gaming houses of Paris and London, making outrageous wagers against the highest of odds and having them pay off in his favor. He’d gambled everything and won. He now had enough money for their fares to America and his dream of gold beyond—but what would they find when they reached their voyage’s end? Mara had wondered.
In New York City they had found ships loaded down with gold hunters and supplies leaving daily for the gold mines of California. The rush of the early forty-niners was still going on a year later, but as latecomers, Brendan reasoned, they would learn from the mistakes of the others. There would be no great, rotting hulk of a ship loaded down with gold seekers for the O’Flynns. Brendan had heard the horrifying stories about those overcrowded and poorly provisioned brigs and steamships with their inexperienced crews. Half of the passengers lost their lives even before reaching California. It’d take them only three months instead of the usual seven or more if they sailed on one of the sleek clipper ships, Brendan had declared as he explained away the extra expense such a passage would cost. They usually just carried freight, but they were taking on passengers now, what with the urgent demand to get to California, and they were better equipped and far more seaworthy, Brendan had told Mara confidently. Besides, didn’t they want to get to California before all of the gold was found?
Mara was thankful now for Brendan’s extravagance, for she was certain they never would have survived the long voyage in a lesser ship. Catching the trade winds that had filled their sails and sent them toward the equator, and the balmy weather as they entered the tropics, had been a welcome change from the thunderstorms and high seas of the North Atlantic. The balmy days had turned into long, hot ones by the time they had reached their first port of call, Rio de Janeiro. Guarding the entrance to the bay and seeming to rise out of the sea was the high peak, Pão de Açúcar. The city itself was nestled between the bay, with its sandy beaches and sparkling blue waters, and the conical-shaped hills that stood small before the gray mountain range in the distance. It was a busy port and the last anchorage for most ships traveling around Cape Horn, especially now that the gold rush was on and ships full of Argonauts landed daily.
The streets of Rio de Janeiro were narrow and twisting as they threaded through the city with its lush parks and public plazas where granite fountains sat attractively in the centers, or as they climbed the hillsides to tile-roofed villas with panoramic views of the bay below. Rio de Janeiro seemed a very civilized city with its museums, cafes, and hotels; its palace of the emperor and empress of Brazil; and numerous cathedrals with their ornate spires rising into the azure sky. There was even a theater, the San Januaria, which had its own stock company of players and circus performers. The shops and businesses of European and American traders intermingled along the avenues and were always open for business. Confectioners and blacksmiths, ship’s carpenters and greengrocers had a continuous clientele as ships docked with passengers eager to set foot on land and spend their money.
The people of Rio de Janeiro were just as exotic as their surroundings as they became a blend of the many nationalities that had settled within the shelter of the bay. But the language and customs of the early Portuguese settlers seemed to dominate over the other European colonists, Indians, mestizos, and black slaves that made up the rest of the population of Rio de Janeiro.
The ship’s stores had been replenished from the open marketplaces and stalls where gaily dressed black women, often with their infant children strapped to their backs with pieces of cotton cloth, would sell oranges, bananas, lemons and limes, native fruits and vegetables, coffee and tea, or any other goods needed to continue the long voyage. Brightly plumaged parrots and tropical birds, squealing monkeys, and large
snakes, coiled in the corners of frail wooden cages, were also temptingly offered for sale.
Mara shivered now in memory of the turbulent sea their ship had encountered as it had fought the cold, gusting winds that had raged as the two great oceans met at the tip of South America—Cape Horn, or so they called it, but Brendan had more aptly named it the Gates of Hell. Poor Brendan, Mara smiled reflectively, he’d turned green with seasickness and fear as their ship had been tossed about like so much driftwood on the tide. Brendan hated the sea. Maybe it made him feel insignificant to gaze as far as the horizon and see only shimmering water, and know that it was something he couldn’t exert power over or charm with his good looks or smooth-tongued manner.
It had taken them two weeks to round the Horn, their sails furled as they struggled against the head winds and through the cross seas, the ocean surging into the ship as heavy swells broke over the bow, nosing her under. It was almost beyond human effort just to remain clinging to your berth as the ship seemed to upend itself time and time again until Mara thought it must break in two from the tremendous force of the thrashing waves.
Despite Mara’s beliefs to the contrary, the Windsong made it around the Horn and into the Pacific Ocean with only minor repairs needing to be made as they sailed northward up the west coast of South America, leaving behind the hailstorms and snow of Cape Horn. They docked briefly for fresh water and provisions in the Chilean port of Valparaiso, a small version of Rio de Janeiro, but without the charm or spectacular scenery, and also their last port of call before reaching their final destination.
It had been a hundred and some odd days now, Mara calculated haphazardly. She’d long ago lost count of the exact number, but soon they must reach San Francisco, for the California coastline couldn’t extend much farther, she thought with a feeling of impatience as she stared at the long line of rugged shore stretching northward.
“Dispénseme, señora.”
Mara whirled around in surprise. With the creaking of the tall masts and flapping of the sails, she had not heard anyone approach, nor had she expected to see anyone. Few passengers braved the cold wind on deck, preferring to remain securely below in the relative warmth of their cabins. Mara eyed the Spanish gentleman cautiously, her chin raised haughtily to discourage further conversation. There was something about the Spaniard she did not like or trust. She had first observed him in conversation with Brendan, and even then she had felt an instinctive mistrust of the man. Oh, he was charming, Mara had to concede, but maybe that was why she distrusted him. He was too polite, too solicitous of her welfare, too much the gentleman to be true.
Don Luís Cristobal Quintero stared thoughtfully into the defiantly upturned face of the young woman who was backed against the railing. He noted with regret the antagonism in the golden brown eyes. He had been warned to expect this. But he would not have his efforts go in vain, for too much depended upon his success. He had come close to losing everything because of the selfish willfulness of another female, and he had vowed not to allow this one to defeat him.“Should you be on deck in such weather, and unchaperoned, señora?” Don Luís inquired with just the right hint of concern in his voice. Yet Mara sensed the deception in it.
“Strange things have been known to happen at sea. Should you lose your footing,” he speculated softly, shaking his head, “why, no one would miss you until it was too late. I doubt that you could survive in this freezing water.”
Don Luís shivered delicately at the thought, then smiled apologetically. “But then perhaps you swim, señora? You Europeans seem so accomplished at everything that I am constantly amazed.”
Mara turned her face away from the slightly mocking expression on Don Luís’s aging, aristocratic features. Despite the reassurance of the sailors clinging to the rigging of the ship as they adjusted the sails high above her head, she shivered, feeling vulnerable as she stood beside the Spaniard.
“That is unimportant, señor, since I have no intention of falling overboard. Now, if you’ll be so kind?” Mara made a move to step past Don Luís, but he continued to block her way as he stared down at her.
“Your husband, Señor Brendan O’Flynn, is not as lucky as he would have you believe, señora. Do ask him about it, for I promise you will find his answer most interesting and illuminating. Adiós,” Don Luís bid her, mocking his farewell as he bowed exaggeratedly with old-world courtesy. He turned without another word and walked away.
Mara stared at his retreating back in puzzlement, a feeling of unease settling in the pit of her stomach. Could she truly have heard correctly? Had the suave don actually threatened her? It must surely have been her overactive imagination, prejudiced by her dislike of the man. But if indeed Brendan had been lying to her again, then she would be doing more than merely threatening when she had a word with him.
Mara walked unsteadily across the deck to the door leading down to the companionway, a slight smile on her lips as she remembered the Spaniard’s addressing her, Señora, he had called her. Another one of Brendan’s schemes was to travel as man and wife, and with Paddy along they presented the image of the ideal family. Not only did it protect her from the unwanted advances of unattached males, but it also created an aura of respectability for Brendan. And what could be more perfect, for out-of-work actors were usually looked upon with suspicion. And rightly so, Mara thought, as she remembered all of the unpaid hotel bills they had left behind as they had sneaked off in the middle of the night.
The companionway was shadowy as Mara made her way down it, but she needed no light to pick out Brendan’s door. She knocked twice as she heard the sweet, haunting notes on his fiddle. It was the port na bpúcaí, which Brendan could play so very sweetly—Irish fairy music that was a part of them all, the superstitions and beliefs that influenced their lives and made them what they were. Mara shrugged off the deeply ingrained fears that were warring within her, and entered Brendan’s cabin. She stood tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the last mournful notes to die into the coldness of the cabin and signal the end of his song.
“Surprised I am to be finding you within, Brendan O’Flynn,” Mara began without even greeting him. She threw her sable muff on the foot of his berth and turned to face him. He lounged gracefully against the other end of the berth, a pillow propped behind his shoulders. Brendan looked up lazily from his fiddle, a surprised look on his face at Mara’s tone of voice. He carefully placed his fiddle beside him and picked up several yellowed sheets of paper.
“The divil take me if I can remember this cursed play,” he complained as he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving the dark, reddish-brown curls standing on end.
“And what are you doing reading a play? I thought we were through working for little pay and even less appreciation? In fact,” Mara continued, “I thought we were sitting on a gold mine for sure, the gold just waiting for us to be spending it. And now that I’m on the subject of money, I’ll be wanting a look at our savings.”
“Will you now?” Brendan murmured softly, masking his surprise as he carelessly dropped the pages to the floor. “And just supposing, little Mara, me love, I’m not in the mood to show them to you?” he drawled.
Mara untied the ribbons of her bonnet and pulled it from her head, smoothing the thick chignon at the base of her neck. The light from the whale-oil lamps shone down on her hair, creating the very misleading illusion of a halo around her head.
“Then I just might be doing without your help,” Mara answered back, her eyes darkening with challenge.
“Would ye be doin’ that now? Ah, Jaysus, but me own little sister turning against me,” Brendan moaned as he increased his Irish lilt to a thick brogue. A sad look crossed his handsome features despite the fact that his eyes fairly danced with mirth. “I’m of a mind not to be tellin’ ye a cursed thing, Mara O’Flynn.”
Mara watched the smile linger on his lips as he gazed innocently up at her. He was far too handsome for his own good. His profile was reminiscent of Byron’s for sure, and hi
s eyes had a devilish tilt at the outward corners that gave him an impish look. It was a face that fascinated the ladies, Mara thought with mingled disgust and admiration at the charming picture he made.
“There’s nothing to be worried about, mavournin. Brendan’s never let you down, has he?”
“Aye, and the moon be as lovely a green as Ireland. D’ye take me for a fool, Brendan?” Mara asked, her own brogue deepening as her voice began to quiver with anger. “You might be interested in knowing ’twas a Spanish gentleman who called it to my attention.”
Brendan, actor though he was, still could not control the stiffening of his body, the momentary flash of anger that flickered in his eyes.
“Aye, I can see you’ve made his acquaintance, and over the card table too, I’ve little doubt,” Mara taunted. “Well, do I have to be looking for it meself?”
“You’ll not be finding a cursed thing, Mara,” Brendan confessed. He got to his feet, stretching his lithe body with less energy than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at Mara and shrugged philosophically. “I’ve gone and lost it, damned if I haven’t, Mara.”
Mara closed her eyes, giving a deep sigh before opening them to return his look. She stared into his face, so much like her own with the heavy-lidded, thickly lashed, and slightly slanted eyes below sleekly arched eyebrows. Straight, narrow noses and full, sensuous mouths completed the arrogantly aristocratic molding of their faces.
Mara knew before she spoke what her words would be, for she had recited the same lines over and over again. The setting was the only thing that ever changed. The characters always remained the same, but with each repeated performance her delivery suffered, losing its spontaneity and meaning.
“God help you, Brendan O’Flynn, d’ye care nothing for Padraic or me? You’d be taking the food out of your own son’s mouth to lay a bet,” Mara threw at him incautiously.
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