“Well, if one is to be believing the captain, then we’re supposed to be docking any day now,” Mara answered reassuringly. “Of course, he was saying the same thing over a week ago,” she added softly to herself.
“What’s San Frisco like, Mara? Is it like London or Paris, or Dublin?” Paddy demanded with the knowledge of the well-seasoned traveler.
“Well now, I’m not sure,” Mara answered honestly, “but I suppose ’tis as fine a place as London. To be sure, with all of the gold they’ve found, they must all be living like kings.”
Paddy listened thoughtfully, his dark eyes bright with anticipation. “And do they have vanilla meringues and hot chocolate for breakfast if they want to? And they don’t have to eat green peas?”
Mara smiled in amusement as she looked down at him. “And why not? Who’s to be saying what a rich man may eat or not? Although I think he’d really prefer a plate full of fluffy eggs and chops, with maybe a hot muffin with melted butter and honey to sweeten it…don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe,” Paddy conceded, “but I like meringues best of all.”
“And you’ll be getting plenty when we get to San Francisco.”
“Can’t I have any now?” Paddy asked hopefully. “I’m tired of fish and potatoes.”
Mara sighed tiredly. How could she keep an active little boy entertained through the long months of confinement and inactivity? She had run out of stories to tell and games to amuse him, and the bag of sweets she had bought in Rio de Janeiro was almost empty. And Paddy was right, the food on board was awful and monotonous.
Mara reached into the bag now and pulled out the last piece of candy, handing it into Paddy’s eagerly outstretched palm. “It’s the last one, so make it last.”
Taking off her cloak, Mara laid it across the foot of the berth with her muff and bonnet on top and then wrapped a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. The cold dampness of the ocean seemed to permeate everything, making her constantly chilled. Mara slipped her fingers into her waistband pocket and withdrew a dainty gold watch with an enameled back. It hung from her neck on a long, delicate chain.
“Three o’clock in the afternoon,” Mara sighed as she tried to make herself comfortable on the hard mattress of her berth.
Frowning at the creases, Mara smoothed down the green velvet of her skirt, then straightened the lace edging the bell sleeves of her bodice jacket. She stared at her nails reflectively, then at her green silk slippers, her eyes wandering from one object to another until she sighed in boredom.
Pulling a large, tapestried bag closer from the edge of the berth, Mara reached inside and withdrew a silver hand mirror. She stared dispassionately at her reflection, trying to see what a stranger might see. She had to concede that her face wasn’t one of classic beauty, but it was a beautiful face and she was proud of it. And she knew how to use her beauty, for it drew men irresistibly to her. They could barely conceal the lust on their faces when she allowed them a few, brief moments in her dressing room while she acted out her greatest performance, playing the coquette. Clad in a vividly colored, silk dressing gown that accentuated the smallness of her waist and the firm fullness of her breasts, she would sit before the garishly lighted mirror applying rouge to a soft cheek, or brushing a long strand of dark hair freed from its confining chignon. Standing up and stretching indolently, as though unaware of the hungry eyes upon her, Mara would prowl restlessly before them, her hair cascading in fragrant abandon down her back and swaying with the swing of her hips as her gown parted to reveal a slender length of silk-clad calf.
Mara gazed into the golden reflection of her eyes and felt no remorse for what she did to those men. It was unimportant to her that Brendan hurt women in the same manner as she hurt men. And she did not realize that in seeking revenge, they had both become victims of their own despised memories. All Mara could see were the besotted fools who allowed themselves to be used and who destroyed one another. She didn’t differentiate between the sexes—only between the strong and the weak. She had made herself strong, she told herself as a shadow of memory slipped across her mind, darkening her eyes. She felt a momentary sense of approaching panic.
Mara stared into the mirror, seeing two light blue eyes staring reproachfully back at her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and shook her head to block out the haunting memory of that young boy. She hadn’t meant it to go so far. How could she have known he would shoot himself? Usually the men she became involved with were older and more mature—although just as easily duped—but they didn’t kill themselves over her. Strangely, she couldn’t even remember the young man’s name, or the rest of his face. Just those bewildered blue eyes. Since they had left London the very next day, Brendan had never known about it. That was just as well, for he had warned her often about pushing people too far. If only she could forget…but she couldn’t. It was always there at the back of her mind that she had killed a man—no, she had killed a boy—for he’d hardly been older than herself, and she’d been only eighteen at the time. With a muffled curse Mara shoved the offending mirror back into the bag. She had enough to worry about regarding the future without pondering a past she couldn’t change.
She couldn’t even influence the problem that existed now, Mara thought in growing despair. She wondered how in the world she could go through with this ridiculous plan of Brendan’s. What if they were found out? What would happen to them then? She didn’t trust Don Luís to support them if her true identity were revealed. In fact, he would be the first to denounce the O’Flynns as impostors, thereby saving himself. But what alternative did they have? Brendan had lost all their money. They were destitute. Well, why couldn’t she do it? Mara though rebelliously. She was an actress, wasn’t she? She had faced difficult roles on the stage. She’d just have to refine her English a bit—and remember to curb her tongue if she were to be convincing as a well-brought-up young Englishwoman.
She would do it, Mara vowed as she glanced across at Paddy. He was playing with his toy soldiers in the ruffled blankets and his mouth was pursed as he sucked his sweet. He had the same tilted, deep brown eyes as his father and the same disorderly curls. Paddy was the only good thing that had happened to the O’Flynns in a long time, certainly the only good thing from Brendan’s marriage. Mara had always been curious as to the real reason behind Brendan’s marrying Paddy’s mother, for Brendan was not the marrying kind. How often had Mara seen heartbroken females hanging about, only to be met by Brendan’s callous rejection. But Molly had been different. She had never run after Brendan. Maybe that was what had attracted him to her, that and the instant recognition of a kindred spirit.
When they had first met her all those years ago, she had claimed to be half-gypsy, and had come to London to make her fortune on the stage. She had said she was seventeen, but Mara suspected she was closer to twenty when she joined the troupe of players Brendan belonged to. Voluptuous and fiery, she had stormed onto the stage and made a place for herself despite the jealousies of the older actresses. Mara had been too young then to act with the troupe except in small roles and had spent most of her time backstage running errands, always at someone’s beck and call. But that had changed when Molly, without asking leave of anyone, appropriated Mara’s services for her personal use. Mara flushed as she remembered how she had idolized the tall, dark beauty, ignoring her capricious whims and vicious temper as she strove to please her.
But Molly was restless, always impatient that life was passing her by. Even Brendan’s charm couldn’t hold her. When Molly and Brendan had become lovers, it had not shocked Mara. It’d been inevitable, despite the constant arguments and screaming that accompanied the affair. Mara had often wondered which of them was the stronger. They were too much alike for them both to win.
And then Molly had discovered she was going to have a child. Mara still cringed as she remembered the fit of rage it had thrown Molly into. She had cried for days, distraught and moody as she imagined her career was finished. How could she support herself, hea
vy with child and without a ring on her finger. She’d be thrown out on the streets to starve. She’d get rid of the brat before it came into the world, she had threatened. Whether it was from fear of sinning against God, something Mara suspected Brendan still believed in, or from an attempt to hold onto Molly, or from his own bitterness over being a bastard, Brendan asked Molly to marry him rather than destroy the child.
Jamie had never cared for Molly, and the feeling had been returned in force by Molly. Jamie hadn’t trusted her or thought her fit to associate with the O’Flynns. Maybe she had been jealous, too, of Molly’s influence over both Brendan and Mara.
But she had been right in cautioning Brendan, for the relationship had worsened with marriage. Molly had hated the child, hated its hungry crying as it reached out greedily for her breast. After catching Molly abusing the child when she was in her fits of temper, Mara had taken Paddy away from his mother.
And then one morning, Molly was gone. She had left in the night, leaving no note, and had taken all their small savings and anything else of value she could get her hands on. Paddy, her son, she had left behind.
Poor Brendan never expected Molly to run out on him. In that one instance when he had lowered his defenses, he had found himself being used and discarded. The experience had served as a warning to Mara, and had strengthened her determination against falling in love.
After Jamie’s snort of disgust and muttered “Good riddance, never did trust that thievin’ Gypsy,” not another word had been said about Molly, and Mara sometimes thought Brendan truly believed himself to be a widower. It was the only way he could accept Molly’s desertion. Every so often in some theater they were playing, they would hear her name mentioned by another actor, but they never crossed paths with Molly after that, and in the past few years had not even heard of her again.
Mara looked possessively over at Paddy. She never wanted to hear of Molly O’Flynn again. Paddy was hers, and she wouldn’t risk Molly’s suddenly coming back into their lives and taking Paddy from her. Mara’s golden eyes darkened at the thought. Molly would never get Paddy—why should she? She had abandoned him when he was only a baby, and hadn’t she, Mara, raised him like her own child? Wasn’t she more of a mother to him than Molly could ever be? Well, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Molly was probably dead or had forgotten all about the O’Flynns by now.
But the mere thought of that happening worried her—for with Paddy she was vulnerable. Through Paddy she could be hurt. It was her love for the little fellow, her defenseless, softer self, that was laid bare and exposed for all to see when she gazed at his small dark head. Paddy was the only person Mara could be completely natural with. Even with Brendan she never revealed all of her emotions. It was a battle of wits with him over most things. But with Paddy she could relax and not have to be constantly on guard. She had conveniently forgotten that one day Paddy would grow into a man, and that as a man he might have the power to hurt her. But she wouldn’t worry about that; her only concern now was over what Brendan had gotten them involved in and how soon they could extricate themselves from this association. And she had a feeling that it could not be soon enough.
Mara looked up as the door opened and a haggard-looking Jamie entered, a shawl wrapped protectively over her head and a heavy cloak folded around her thin form.
“How are you feeling, Jamie?” Mara asked doubtfully as she noticed the greenish tinge to her skin and the beads of perspiration clinging to Jamie’s upper lip.
Jamie gave her a dour look, shivering as she huddled in the corner of the berth. “And how d’ye think I’d be feelin’, havin’ me insides hung up like sails and blown inside and out,” she sniffed. “I’ve gone from bad to worse on this hare-brained voyage of Brendan’s, and if I never be settin’ foot on a creakin’ hulk like this again, then it’ll be too soon.”
Mara hid her smile. “I know you’re not feeling hearty as a buck, Jamie, but—”
“Hearty as a buck! I’m feelin’ more like that gaping-mouthed salmon flapping its tail up on deck,” Jamie said with some return of spirit.
“You’re silly, Jamie. You’re not pink like a fish, you’re gray like a big whale!” Paddy cried out as he started making faces like a fish.
“Ye just be watchin’ yerself, Master Paddy,” Jamie warned him. “Keep making them faces and I’ll be givin’ ye a dose o’ cod-liver oil.”
Paddy made an even more grotesque face and subsided into silence on the berth as his toy soldiers caught his attention once again.
“Jamie,” Mara spoke quietly. “Brendan’s decided that we need more money. In fact, we find ourselves in rather straitened circumstances and need the money rather desperately,” Mara tried to explain tactfully.
“Brendan’s been gambling again, has he?” Jamie said bluntly, showing no surprise at the news. “Best be settin’ our wits to work and figure a way out o’ this. Or has Brendan already got a scheme?” Jamie sent Mara a hard look. Her eyes were still as sharp as an eagle’s and seldom misread an expression.
“Aye, Jamie,” Mara confessed. “Brendan’s not wasted any time in getting us paying jobs—acting parts too,” Mara added with a half-smile curving her mouth in derision.
“Well, that sounds more like what we was meant to be doin’ instead of huntin’ for this fool gold mine of Brendan’s. What play will we be doin’, and what’s the pay?” Jamie asked practically.
Mara hesitated, unsure as to how much she should tell Jamie. “It isn’t exactly a play, nor will we be acting on a stage in a theater, but we’ll be getting room and board, Jamie,” Mara admitted as she resolutely continued despite the sour look she was receiving from Jamie. “I’m going to pretend to be the niece of this Spaniard, Don Luís, and Brendan will act the part of my cousin, and—”
“May the Lord forgive me, but I’m not wantin’ to be hearin’ another word about it. To be sure, I’m not of a mind to be knowin’ anything about it, Mara O’Flynn, so don’t ye be tellin’ me more. The less I know the better I’ll be sleepin’ nights,” Jamie told her emphatically as she shook her gray head in resignation.
“As long as you remember to call me Amaya, and there won’t be much else you’ll have to say…” Mara paused thoughtfully, a teasing light entering her eyes. “If you’d rather, I can tell them you’re a mute, and then you won’t have to say anything at all.”
“Hrrmph!” Jamie snorted contemptuously. “The day I can’t be rememberin’ me lines I’ll be past breathin’. I may not have acted before an audience in near over a quarter of a century, but I can still be playin’ me part. Mute, indeed,” she sniffed.
“I have complete faith in you, Jamie,” Mara declared innocently, hiding her satisfied grin behind a casually raised hand.
“And don’t be thinkin’ ye bird-limed me, missie,” Jamie snapped. “I knew what ye was up to all along.”
“Of course, Jamie,” Mara answered.
Later that evening, after Paddy was warmly tucked up and asleep in his berth, Mara left her cabin, Jamie nursing her favorite cup of tea laced with brandy, and met with Brendan and Don Luís in Brendan’s cabin. Brendan was staring into his whiskey glass and Don Luís was taking a sip of richly colored red wine when Mara entered. Don Luís rose quickly to his feet and offered her a chair at the table where Brendan still sat, a morose expression on his lean face. Mara eyed him curiously, wondering what had happened to send him into one of his famous black moods.
“Please, señora, will you not partake of some of this excellent wine? I brought it from France.” Don Luís poured the dark red liquid into a crystal goblet and solemnly presented it to her. “I am always comforted to have my own possessions around me when I am traveling. Being accustomed to a certain standard of living, I prefer to maintain it no matter how uncivilized the conditions I find myself in.”
The incongruity of the crystal next to Brendan’s bottle of brown whiskey and plain glass caused Mara to smile. She accepted the wine from the Spaniard, nodding graciously.
�
��I am reassured, señora, to see your change of spirit,” Don Luís commented, misinterpreting the reason for her smile. “But I must get accustomed to calling you by your new name, Doña Amaya.”
“Doña?” Mara frowned at his words.
Don Luís’s thin lips widened in a grin, but the smile did not reach the black depths of his eyes. He explained, “It is merely a form of address, like miss or madam, and shows respect. You will become used to it. Please, Señor O’Flynn, some wine,” Don Luís invited as Brendan was about to pour himself another whiskey.
Brendan shook his head as he filled his glass with the brown liquid. “No, thank you, I can’t abide that sweet stuff. It’s uisge beatha, the water of life, or nothing for any decent Irishman.”
Mara shivered as a cool draught of air swept through the cabin and touched her shoulders. She took a deep swallow of wine and felt it lick like fire through her blood. It left her cheeks flushed as the chill left her body.
“It is fortunate that Amaya left California at so young an age. It will not be expected that she would speak Spanish,” Don Luís began, his black eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at Mara’s flushed face, “and a young girl changes much in the years approaching womanhood. Few will remember exactly what the young Amaya looked like. In fact, I did not recognize Amaya when I saw her in England. And oddly enough, you look more like the Amaya I had expected to see. It will work out fine, and as you are an accomplished actress,” he added, his tone sounding insultingly superior to Mara’s sensitive ear, “I need have no fears regarding your ability to play the role.”
“Then they’ll not be expecting me to remember them?” Mara inquired politely, masking her dislike of the man.
Laurie McBain Page 5