Mara glanced around her curiously. The room she’d run into was a parlor, and apparently seldom used for it was stuffy and dust thickly covered what little furniture there was. She went quickly to the window which overlooked the back of the house, as well as another building close behind, one that was lower and onto which she could possibly jump.
Mara was hesitant to try it, but there was no other alternative. She was about to raise the window when she heard a whimpering sound coming from behind one of the large overstuffed chairs in the corner. With a sigh she hurried over to it, peering down into the concealing darkness to see the maid whose timely interruption had allowed her to escape.
“Are you all right?” Mara asked, anxious to flee. The girl had stopped crying and sniffed loudly as she hesitantly got to her feet, not standing much higher than the back of the chair. She nodded.
Mara looked at the pathetic creature. Her life must surely be hell if her livelihood depended on the whims of Molly. Mara dug into her purse and pulled our several silver dollars. Grabbing the girl’s bony hand, she placed them in her palm. She hurried back over to the window while the girl stood staring down into her hand, looking at the small fortune she suddenly possessed.
Mara was about to climb over the sill when a tremulous voice halted her. “There’s a back staircase, ma’am,” Ellen told her as she came out from behind the protection of the chair. She pointed to another door partially concealed by a heavy curtain.
Mara hurried across to it, pushing aside the curtain and opening the door that led to the stairs. “Thank you,” Mara said quietly, yet with a depth of feeling the word had never held for her before. Then she disappeared behind the door.
***
“It won’t open,” Jacques said as he tried the door Mara had disappeared behind from Molly’s bedchamber. “I’ll have to break it in.”
“Wait, I have a key for it somewhere.” Molly stopped him as she rushed over to her dresser and began to sort through the cluttered surface where her perfume bottles, brushes, beauty aids, and small bunches of artificial flowers, ribbons, and feathers, all covered with a thin coating of powder, were crowded together. “It’d cost me a fortune to get that door repaired.”
Jacques watched her impatiently as she continued to dig without success in the disorder of her dresser. “Mon Dieu! She’ll be in Paris by the time you find that key, ma chérie,” Jacques swore.
“Oh, break it down, then. I’ll be able to buy a thousand doors when I get my hands on that damned fortune of Brendan’s,” Molly told him as she gave up her fruitless search for the key.
Swearing beneath his breath, Jacques stepped back from the door he’d just charged, rubbing his painful shoulder as he glared at the offending obstacle. Taking a deep breath, he took a step and kicked hard against the door, the lock giving with a splintering of wood as he and the Count rushed in, only to find an empty parlor.
“She must have gone out of the window,” the Count said in disappointment at losing his quarry when he noticed the window as a cold draft swept through the room.
“Never mind,” Molly spoke from the doorway, a look of cunning replacing the frustrated expression on her face as she continued in a soft voice, “we’ll settle the score with Mara O’Flynn later, and at the same time, get my fortune from her.”
***
Mara reached the relative safety of the boardinghouse without incident, her breath coming raggedly as she stepped inside and closed the door firmly shut behind her. She was still standing before the door when Jenny entered the hall, her smile of welcome changing to a look of alarmed concern as she became aware of her friend’s agitation.
“What has happened? Are you all right?” Jenny demanded as she grasped Mara’s arms, pulling her away from the door and into the parlor. She pushed her down into a chair.
“What on earth has happened?” Jenny asked once again when Mara had caught her breath.
Mara made an effort to gather her thoughts together. “I’m afraid Brendan didn’t leave me as well off as I imagined. In fact, it will take all there is left just to leave for Europe,” Mara told her with a worried frown. She checked her watch. “I must go to one of the shipping lines and book passage on a ship leaving immediately for England.”
“You’re leaving San Francisco! But why, Mara? You can find a way to live here, can’t you? Will it really be any better in London or Paris? You can make a new life for yourself and Paddy out here, Mara. Why don’t you give it a chance?”
Mara replied dully, “It’s no good here for me. It’s funny—that’s just what Brendan used to tell me, that we could make a new life for ourselves out here. That the past didn’t matter anymore.”
Mara shook her head, a bittersweet smile curving her lips. “He was wrong, for it seems as if the past caught up with us out here. Molly wants Brendan’s fortune, and she wouldn’t believe me when I tried to tell her that there isn’t any. She won’t leave me alone until she gets everything, or at least what she mistakenly believes there is. I’ve got to get away from here, Jenny. She scares me, as well as that Jacques D’Arcy and the Count. They’ll use Paddy to try and get what they want, and I don’t want him hurt,” Mara told Jenny desperately. “I can’t stand this city anymore. It’s brought nothing but misery to the O’Flynns. I will be sorry to leave you, though. I guess you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had.
“Brendan and I traveled so much, and—well, in our profession you just don’t make many friends,” Mara said with a shrug as she got to her feet and glanced around the plain little room. “Maybe someday we’ll come back and see how you’re doing. I believe I’ll actually miss this place,” Mara said wryly. “I’ve got to find Jamie now and start her packing. I don’t believe she’ll be sorry to leave. She never did like it in California.”
Jenny watched Mara walk from the room, a sad look in her eyes as she realized she’d probably never see Mara O’Flynn again. There would be nothing in San Francisco for the beautiful Irishwoman to return to, nothing except sad memories.
***
Nicholas Chantale picked up his winnings from the faro table and made his way out onto the street, breathing deeply of the crisp air after the stuffy gambling saloon. He strode effortlessly along the congested sidewalk, groups parting as he shouldered his way through, his wide chest and strong jaw only hinting at the strength that lay beneath.
Nicholas stopped at the corner, pausing long enough to buy San Francisco and New Orleans newspapers. Without sparing a glance for his surroundings, he moved along and quickly found his way to the restaurant on Dupont Street where he was meeting the Swede for lunch. While he waited, he began to thumb through the newspapers. He’d almost finished his wine when he started to read the New Orleans paper.
His wineglass had been refilled but was still close to the brim when the Swede pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, casting a curious glance at Nicholas who was still staring thoughtfully at his newspaper.
“Something interesting in there?” the Swede asked as he ordered a whiskey. Then, noticing that the paper was from New Orleans, he said, “A New Orleans paper? Don’t tell me the Mississippi’s flooded its banks again?”
“I bought it out of curiosity,” Nicholas said quietly. “I’m returning to New Orleans as soon as possible.”
The Swede stared, astounded. “You’re going home? I thought you swore you’d never set foot in New Orleans again? What’s happened to change your mind?”
“I received a letter from my father, forwarded from London by Denise. My family hasn’t the slightest idea where to find me,” Nicholas told him dryly. “You can travel a long way in fifteen years.”
The Swede shook his curly blond head, a look of amazement crossing his broad features. “Your father wrote to you?”
Nicholas smiled crookedly. “Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it?”
“After the way he practically ran you out of New Orleans, yes, it does. But I guess time heals all wounds,” the Swede said, not really comprehending su
ch hatred, especially a man’s hatred for his own son. But then, these were Creoles, and never had he met such a thin-skinned bunch of folks. They imagined slights right and left of them. Even Nicholas could stop a person cold with one of his looks.
“Time didn’t heal this one, Swede,” Nicholas told him, drawing an envelope from his pocket. “Only the truth permitted him to write to me. His pride and honor wouldn’t allow him to continue to accuse me falsely. So he swallowed both and wrote to me,” Nicholas finished. He handed the letter to his friend.
The Swede banged his glass of whiskey onto the table. “You mean he finally believes you?”
“Yes,” Nicholas answered shortly, a troubled expression settling on his brow.
The Swede opened the letter and began to read, the formal wording bringing back vivid memories of that aristocratic old gentleman.
September 11, 1850
My dearest son, Nicholas,
I have gravely wronged you, my son. I have recently discovered the truth of François’s tragic death. To write this letter brings me both pain and joy, for in facing the true evil, I realize that I’ve been a foolish old man whose grief drove him to turn against his beloved son and send him from his heart. I can only ask that you forgive me. Will you return home and take your rightful place as heir to Beaumarais? I will be changing my will in your favor, and should anything happen to me before you return, I shall have written it all down in my diary. There you will find the truth. I beg your forgiveness and long to see your face.
Your loving and penitent father,
François Philippe de Montaigne-Chantale
“Well,” the Swede commented, handing the letter back to Nicholas, “if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it possible. I wonder what he found out to change his mind.”
“I don’t know, but you can understand why I would wish to know who really killed François and let me be accused of it. That’s why I’m going back to New Orleans,” Nicholas told him, his lips thinned into a grim line as he stared at the letter.
“You want me along?” the Swede asked bluntly.
Nicholas eyed him curiously for a second before saying softly, “It’s up to you, Swede. Maybe you have a special reason for not wanting to leave San Francisco? You thinking of looking for more gold?” he asked carefully.
The Swede shook his blond head. “No. Actually, I was figuring on maybe buying myself some kind of business, maybe a restaurant or a small hotel,” the Swede confided with a broad smile. “Turning respectable, you might say.”
Nicholas nodded, a cynical smile playing over his face as he asked casually, “Thinking of settling down in San Francisco, are you?”
“Been thinking about it for some time actually,” the Swede answered just as carefully. He watched Nicholas, knowing not to accept that smile at face value. “San Francisco seems my type of town, what with all the whiskey and women around. Now that I’ve got some capital behind me, I’d like to be in on the building of this town. I think it could be quite a place one of these days, if the right people have a hand in its growth.”
“You sure it’s not just one woman who has you wanting to stay here?” Nicholas asked him suddenly. “A certain acid-tongued Irishwoman whose golden eyes probably reflect the gold in your pockets instead of love?”
The Swede’s big fists bunched. “You know, Nicholas, if you weren’t such a good friend you’d be picking yourself off of the floor right now and nursing a sore jaw. But knowing you as well as I do,” he added with a humorless smile, “I can forgive you for your short-sighted, cruel, and just plain stupid attitude toward Mara O’Flynn.”
Nicholas laughed without amusement. “My, my. She really does have you bewitched. When’s the wedding?”
The Swede glared across the table at his exasperating friend. “You’re the one bewitched, and it’s blinding you to the truth. My God, Nicholas, what does she have to do to prove to you that she’s a decent woman? Or don’t you want that? Because then you wouldn’t have an excuse to hate her, and you might even find that you actually liked her. Isn’t that the truth, Nicholas?”
“You’re becoming quite a philosopher, Swede. Better be careful or they’ll start calling you the Preacher instead.”
“You may think you’ve lost your old attitudes, Nicholas, but you’re just as arrogant and narrow-minded as you were as a young dandy in New Orleans. You’re destined to learn the hard way, Nicholas, and then it’s likely to be too late.”
The Swede stopped long enough to give his order to the hovering waiter. Then, looking his friend straight in the eye, he stated clearly, “Just to set your mind at rest, I have no plans to marry Mara O’Flynn.”
“Well,” Nicholas interrupted, “now you’re showing some sense.”
“If she’d have me, I’d wed her tomorrow. But she’s never led me to believe that she cared for me in that way. I’m just a friend to her, someone she can depend upon, something she’s had too few of I’d say. You know her brother died? That she’s been left alone to care for his son?”
“Yes, I heard,” Nicholas replied. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about Mara O’Flynn. Her brother must have left her a fortune, although for some people it’s never enough. And so now she’s after your money and your pity.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, but don’t make the same mistake your father made, Nicholas, and turn your back on someone before they are given the chance to explain themselves.”
“I’ll remember your words, Swede,” Nicholas said lightly. “So you’ll not be coming with me?”
“No, I don’t think so. Besides, what could I do? I never was welcomed with open arms at Beaumarais, and when they catch sight of your casual ways, I will never be invited inside. Reckon I’ll just keep an eye on things around here. Maybe you’d even care to invest some of your money in a business with me?” he speculated, a hopeful look in his blue eyes as he offered the partnership to the Creole.
Nicholas smiled. “I’d like that, but only as a silent partner, I can’t quite see myself as a storekeeper.”
“Good as done!” the Swede laughed, holding out his hand. “Let’s drink to our new partnership. When you return, I’ll own half of the town,” the Swede boasted. Then he eyed Nicholas suspiciously. “You are planning to return, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be back, Swede, if just to make sure you’re not swindling me out of my fair share,” Nicholas told him as he raised his glass in a toast to his longtime friend.
“When are you planning on sailing?” the Swede asked.
“Day after tomorrow. There’s a ship leaving for New York via New Orleans, I’ll sail on her. That’ll give me time to take care of our business and enjoy one last night in San Francisco,” Nicholas said. “Let’s make it a night we’re not likely to forget.”
Life’s uncertain voyage.
—Shakespeare
Chapter 10
Mara walked slowly along the hallway of the Parker House as she searched for the number of the Swede’s room. She had debated upon the propriety of calling on him in his hotel, but since time was short, she had decided to seek him out in order to bid him farewell and thank him for his kindness. She couldn’t just leave San Francisco without saying good-bye to him.
Mara stopped before his door, pausing briefly before knocking. She hadn’t long to wait. The door was opened quickly by the Swede, a broad smile lighting his kindly face as he recognized his visitor.
“Mara!” he said as he opened the door wider. “Come in, please. This is certainly an honor.”
Mara stepped inside hesitantly. “I could come back at a later time if I’ve inconvenienced you?” she asked as she eyed his unbuttoned vest, his ruffled shirtfront showing beneath.
The Swede’s broad face flushed in embarrassment. “Please, don’t go. I was just dressing,” he explained, “I’m sorry the place is in such disorder.”
“I know you’re probably going out to dine, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say good-bye,”
Mara told him.
“Good-bye?” the Swede repeated.
“I’ve decided to leave San Francisco. In fact, there is a ship leaving this evening that I’ve booked passage on. This time next year we should be settled in London. It’s where I belong, Swede, not out here,” Mara explained.
The Swede managed a shaky smile. “I’ll miss you, Mara. Are you sure you want to leave? I’m going to make my home here in San Francisco, and…well, I thought we could at least be friends.”
Mara smiled sadly. “I would have liked that, Swede, but things don’t always turn out the way you’d wish them to.”
“You’re not leaving San Francisco because you’re frightened of someone, are you?” the Swede demanded belligerently. “That French gambler hasn’t been bothering you again, has he? If he has, I’ll twist his fingers so he never shuffles another deck of cards as long as he lives.” Mara knew it was no idle threat.
“No,” Mara lied, for what good would it do to get the Swede involved in this. It really didn’t matter now. “I want to leave, and this way there won’t be any trouble, either with Jacques or Molly. It really is for the best,” Mara told him gently. “Now I really must go.”
The Swede nodded, a look of disappointment that he could not hide darkening his blue eyes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mara, and you know I wish you happiness.”
“I know, Swede, and thank you for remaining my friend in spite of certain things you know about me,” Mara told him, smiling warmly as she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
The Swede’s muscular arms slid around her as she would have stepped away from him, and lowering his head, he touched her mouth with a kiss. It was sweet and sad, for they both knew that nothing would come of it.
Laurie McBain Page 35