“You speak pretty brave for a man alone. The Count here, he doesn’t like your tone of voice, not at all,” Jacques warned, his tight smile stretching grotesquely as he nodded toward the Count
Jacques was feeling brave because he knew the Count’s skill at quickly disabling a man, a proficiency for which he’d become notorious. But Jacques had misjudged the Swede, never imagining a man of such great size could move so agilely or think with such quick cunning.
The Swede anticipated the Count’s murderous attack. Even as the Count’s arm raised, the knife blade flashing, wickedly, the Swede had reached out and grabbed the smaller man’s wrist in his viselike grip, turning it so suddenly, and at so unnatural an angle that Mara heard the sharp snap of bones breaking, followed by the cry of excruciating pain. The Count’s weapon was jammed between two loose-fitting boards in the wall and then snapped clean in two by the Swede.
Jacques wasn’t a man for wasting time. As he witnessed his surprising change in fortunes, he decided to make his escape. But he had delayed too long, for the Swede was close behind. As Jacques cleared the front door, he found himself flying through the air with the help of a huge hand clamped to the seat of his pants. He flew headlong into the foul-smelling mud of the street below.
“And just remember,” the Swede spoke down to the sprawling figure now covered in mud, “if anything ever happens to this lady, if you even come near her, I’ll spread-eagle you in the sun, carve your beating heart out with my bowie knife, and feed it to the coyotes while the vultures pick clean your rotting eyes.”
“Jaysus,” a voice commented softly, “I trust we are on the same side?”
The Swede turned at the sound of the amused voice and stared curiously at the thin, tanned face of the lean man standing just clear of the doorway. He narrowed his eyes in puzzlement, feeling a second’s recognition of the stranger.
Mara had followed the Swede to the door, giving wide berth to the unconscious form of the Count as she passed him stretched out on the floor. Now she stepped out onto the porch, staring in curiosity at Jacques as he struggled to rise from the ignominious position in which he found himself as bystanders stood around, laughing at his predicament. Mara became aware of the Swede’s puzzled gaze and turned to see what he found so interesting.
“Brendan!” Mara cried out in amazement as she flung herself into his outstretched arms, wrapping her arms around his neck as she ecstatically hugged him and spread kisses across his face. “Brendan! Oh, Brendan! You’re alive!” Mara whispered, still not believing he was actually there.
“Well, to be sure, I had a hard enough time tracing you. As soon as I saw the ruckus, however, I knew I’d found you, mavournin,” Brendan laughed as he swung Mara off her feet and swirled her around.
“Papa!” Paddy screamed as he ducked past Jenny’s arm. They all crowded into the doorway, Gordie and Paul gawking first at the prostrate form of the Count, then in admiration at the Swede who still stood with hands on hips, feet planted firmly apart. He surveyed the chaos with wry amusement.
Brendan released Mara to capture Paddy as he threw himself against Brendan’s hips, nearly knocking him off balance with his embrace. “To be sure, but you’ve grown at least a foot since I last set me eyes on you,” he laughed as he stared into Paddy’s upturned face.
Jacques managed to escape unnoticed as the reunion caught everyone’s attention, but as Jenny invited them inside to continue their merrymaking, the Swede remembered the fallen Count and shook his head with regret as he declined the invitation.
“I think I’d better remove our unwelcome guest here,” the Swede said as he nodded his big head at the Count, who was beginning to show signs of life as he moaned his way back into consciousness. “I don’t think you want him at the party.”
Mara broke away from Brendan’s arm and hurried over to the Swede. “I don’t know how to thank you, Swede, but I’m in your debt,” she told him. On sudden impulse, Mara stood on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss against his hard cheek, her golden eyes warm with friendship as she stared up into his surprised blue eyes.
Brendan and Jenny seemed just as surprised by Mara’s uncharacteristic gesture of affection as the big man himself appeared to be. But as the groans from the Count grew progressively louder, the Swede put aside any other thoughts he might have voiced and quickly hoisted the elegant figure over his shoulder as carelessly as he would have a sack of potatoes. With a casual nod he made his way from the boardinghouse.
“Whew!” Brendan declared in amazement. “Now there’s a mountain masquerading as a man, and relieved I am to be finding you on such good terms with him, mavournin. Who is he?”
“He’s called the Swede, but as to his continued allegiance,” Mara added with a speculative look, “that’s questionable. You see, he happens to be a friend of one Nicholas Chantale. You do remember him, m’dear?”
“The divil take him, now,” Brendan said with a grimace. “I knew there had to be a worm in the apple.”
“Oh, Brendan, it’s so good to hear your mocking voice again,” Mara laughed, pushing aside all other thoughts as she gazed at him. She became aware of the unnatural thinness of his face, and the slight slumping of his shoulders. He looked tired, as if he’d been ill and hadn’t quite shaken the effects of his illness from him. And even though his face seemed healthily tanned, there was a slight yellowish tinge to the skin. Mara could see the beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as Brendan made himself comfortable on the sofa.
“You haven’t been well, Brendan?” Mara asked worriedly.
“’Tis nothing now, my love,” Brendan reassured her. “I caught a chill, that’s all. In fact, most everyone does up there, and considering what a hellhole it is, why, surprised I am even to be alive.”
“Master Brendan!” Jamie cried from the doorway as she rushed into the room, her gray eyes suspiciously moist as she stared at Brendan’s lounging figure. “Holdin’ court as usual, dominatin’ the conversation, cussin’ away as always—ah, but ’tis good to be seein’ ye, that it is,” Jamie greeted him with a watery chuckle. Then, with narrowed eyes she continued, “And I can see ye’ve not been eatin’ properly, nor takin’ care of yourself the way ye should. Ye’re lookin’ like death himself.”
“You never do stop mother-henning me, eh, Jamie?” Brendan laughed, pleased by her show of concern even though he didn’t care to have her clucking about him.
“Ye need a good meal in ye, boy. How about a cup of coffee? There’s fresh bread as well, and—”
“It’s all right, Jamie,” Mara interrupted, “Jenny’s gone to fix something, although by the smell of him, I’d say Brendan’s already stopped off somewhere for a whiskey and a bath,” Mara guessed with a knowing look.
“Mavournin, you wouldn’t have cared to see me the way I was looking on me arrival here in San Francisco. I looked and smelled worse than a grizzly,” Brendan said in horror, “and you can’t begrudge a man for wanting to wash the dust out of his mouth.”
“I’ll go help Mrs. Markham,” Jamie said as she bustled from the room, but not before she’d given Brendan an all-encompassing stare that missed nothing of his appearance.
“Same old busybody,” Brendan commented with a laugh as he stretched out his long legs, drawing Mara’s attention to his expertly tailored pants and fashionable shoes.
“To look at you now one would imagine you’d just been out for a stroll through St. James’s Park,” Mara remarked, adding curiously, “and certainly not just back from the mines. How long have you been in San Francisco, for I don’t imagine those were the clothes you arrived in?”
Brendan laughed. “Indeed not, mavournin. I was elegantly clad in red flannel and baggy breeches—held up by suspenders, no less—and sporting the shaggiest, most disreputable beard this side of the Rockies,” Brendan declared dramatically. “Ah, my love, you’d not have recognized me handsome face nor, indeed, have cared to claim the relationship.”
“Then where did you find the clothes?�
�� Mara demanded.
“If a man has enough gold in his pockets, then anything is possible,” Brendan said smiling, his dark eyes twinkling with excitement as he waited for Mara’s reaction. “I snap me fingers and my smallest wish is granted. Like having a tailor working all night sewing me my new suit. Or, for instance, having a lobster salad and fillet of beef smothered in mushroom sauce, a magnum of champagne, and a beautiful woman sent up to me room.”
“Brendan,” Mara said softly, “you struck it rich?”
“To be sure, I did,” Brendan replied offhandedly, yet his eyes were shining with suppressed happiness.
Mara just sat silently staring at him for a minute, not quite believing what she heard. How could it be true? They were actually rich. Brendan had succeeded in finding his fortune. It was incredible! It was a soft, hazy dream she must surely awaken from into the cold, clear light of day.
“No, ’tis true, mavournin,” Brendan broke into her thoughts, having accurately read her mind. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. We’re rich. Jaysus, but we’re rich!”
“Oh, Brendan, Brendan, you did it!” Mara cried with happiness and pride as she watched Brendan throw back his head and laugh for the pure enjoyment of it, his face flushed with success. They exchanged glances, not having to speak their thoughts as each felt the past years slide away. Under the heady onslaught of their newfound wealth, the past could finally be forgotten.
No matter how fair the sun shines,
Still it must set.
—Ferdinand Raimund
Chapter 8
María Velazquez stared around her pink-tinted boudoir in vain appreciation of the elegant adornments serving as a backdrop for her exotic beauty. Gilt-framed mirrors on every wall reflected sparkling glass chandeliers suspended above the thick carpet. White lace fluttered against the glass of the windows, which were draped in heavy, red damask. Satin-upholstered rosewood chairs and an overstuffed, deep-buttoned chaise longue were strategically positioned around the room. But it was the large four-poster with canopy draped in red velvet that dominated all else and drew the eye, as indeed it was meant to do. With its matching spread of dark red velvet and a fur rug folded at the foot, it seemed a haven of warmth and security to a man just down from the loneliness of the Sierra or weary from a long sea voyage. The lovely room and the woman were available should he have the right amount of gold in his pockets.
And María Velazquez always made sure they could pay before she shared her favors with them. Time was money in this city full of prospective customers. María stared out the window at the rain falling in windblown sheets against the clapboard sides of the buildings. Making a moue of distaste, she turned away from the window, wrapping her diaphanous peignoir of pink silk gauze around her pale body. Shivering delicately she pulled the fur rug from the bed and wrapped it around her body, rubbing her hands sensuously over the dark glossy sable.
With a bored sigh she walked over to one of the side tables loaded down with fine imported liqueurs and brandy, champagne, claret, and port, and poured herself a full goblet of champagne. San Francisco had been a slight disappointment to her on her arrival here from Europe less than a month ago. But she had quickly seen beneath the crude glitter and discovered the real gold mine of opportunities for a beautiful woman. Anything could happen here and everything was possible, especially for an ambitious woman. And María Velazquez was most ambitious.
With a provocative swing of her hips, a contrived movement that had now become second nature to her, María moved to the large wardrobe with its marquetry-paneled doors standing slightly ajar. Pushing the doors wider, María stared in disagreeable silence at the colorful assortment of gowns presented for her inspection. Her calculative gaze traveled over the silks, satins, and velvets, until finally coming to rest on a deeply flounced black velvet figured gown of purple silk. She pulled it free from the confining space of the wardrobe and spread it out on the bed. Her amethyst necklace and earrings would go well with it, and her dark purple velvet cape lined in mink would keep her elegantly warm. She was taking a great deal of trouble with her appearances tonight, but then she was dining with someone very special and she had every intention of captivating her host. Jacques D’Arcy was definitely a man going somewhere in the world. He also possessed a certain sophistication, a savoir-faire, that was glaringly absent in most of the population here. They might be able to don fancy clothes and pay for expensive entertainment, but gentlemen they were not. Nor would they ever be. They were still farmers, store clerks, schoolteachers, and bookkeepers—some even deserters from ships and army regiments. Most were still the same dull louts they had always been, with plenty of money and drink bringing out the worst in them.
María had achieved some of her goals as the mistress of princes and counts, generals and bankers, all men of importance and wealth in European society. And like her idol, Lola Montez, she had even exerted some political influence over her lovers. She enjoyed a life of luxury, surrounded by servants who would jump to her slightest whim. But the sacrifice of her beautiful body to elderly, debauched voluptuaries—in hope of their generosity—had become too great.
As María Velazquez rang for her maid, she swore to herself that things would be different in San Francisco. Once she made her fortune, she would never have to submit to the insults of those who thought themselves better than she, or bow submissively before them as she fearfully awaited their pleasure, or displeasure, and whatever handout they deigned to give her.
Well, she would show them all and someday laugh in their faces when she returned to Europe a wealthy woman. María tapped her foot impatiently. Where was that damned maid? Must she constantly have to suffer fools around her? She rang the bell again, vigorously shaking it until the door opened and an appropriately cowed servant with a harassed expression entered.
María picked up her hair brush from her dressing table and viciously threw it at the diffident young girl who served as her maid, the brush hitting her in the shoulder before she could sidestep it. The pale girl flinched in pain and nervously caught her lower lip between her teeth as she faced her volatile mistress.
“And where have you been?” María demanded. “You’re here to see to my needs, not to entertain some rutting Don Juan down on the docks,” she bullied. The thin girl was hardly more than a child with her underdeveloped body and pale blond hair that hung in lank wisps around her pinched face.
“B-but—” the girl began tearfully, her lips trembling.
“I don’t want any more of your lies, Ellen. It’s disgusting the way you go around mooning over anything in breeches. At least you ought to get them to pay for it,” María said crudely. “Now prepare my bath and set out my things for this evening.”
With a sullen look Ellen obeyed her orders, her mind forgetting her hurts as she handled the delicately beautiful garments that would soon adorn her mistress’s voluptuous body. They were far too elegant for the likes of her, Ellen thought resentfully. Her thin fingers fondled the soft cambric of María’s chemisette. She cast a sly, malevolent look at her benefactress from pale blue eyes dulled by years of drudgery and subservience.
“And this time don’t forget to perfume the water, you little fool,” María continued her harangue. “And it’d better be hot or I’ll sell you to one of the houses on the docks. The sailors can teach you your place,” she threatened without even bothering to glance up from her jewelry. She wasn’t aware of her browbeaten servant’s look of terror as the young girl pressed her hand against her mouth in silent suffering.
María finally glanced up to see Ellen still standing there, indecisively. “Well? Are you some bloody statue or something? Get a move on, girl. If you ruin this evening for me, I’ll beat you black and blue,” she warned as the girl ran from the room. With a smile of satisfaction she turned back to her jewelry and her thoughts of this evening.
***
“Mavournin,” Brendan called impatiently up the stairs, “are you dressed yet? To be sure, ’twould be nice t
o dine before dawn.”
Upstairs, Mara was ignoring his sarcastic plea as she delicately touched scent behind her ears and to the hollow between her breasts. She thought of the startling change in fortune Brendan’s arrival had brought. Strange how a large chunk of metal could make you rich overnight. For that was what Brendan had stumbled across—one large gold nugget worth forty-five thousand dollars.
Brendan was on top of the world. Never had Mara seen him look happier—or quite so ill. The search for his elusive gold had robbed him of his health. He had always been on the delicate side, and the cold, wet weather, combined with excessive drinking and poor diet, had left its destructive mark on his thin body. But Brendan contemptuously brushed aside any suggestion that he should rest until he regained his health. He was enjoying his newfound riches with a spending spree that must have run into the thousands of dollars already.
Not that Mara could complain too much, for she benefited from his unrestrained spending. He had bought her a whole new wardrobe of dresses and cloaks, hats and shoes, jewelry and any trinket that caught her eye. No one could possibly accuse Brendan of being parsimonious, for he thoroughly enjoyed spending his money in a devil-may-care manner that was his style. Mara was uneasy as Brendan spent his money so freely. They should save some of it. They had been close to ruin too many times for her to enjoy seeing money tossed around so casually. But Brendan only shrugged and reassured her that he could easily find more gold.
She had stood firm against him in only one thing, and that was over moving out of Jenny’s boardinghouse. He had taken rooms at the St. Francis, one of the best hotels in San Francisco, but Mara thought that environment would be unhealthy for Paddy, besides which, he had friends to keep him amused at Jenny’s. And Mara preferred to stay discreetly out of sight as much as possible, remembering her last meeting with Nicholas.
Laurie McBain Page 30