Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Oh, they’ll remember,” Lucia said.

  “You don’t have to worry about my hope, Jessup. I never understood why this quest was so important to Sapphire to start with. I never knew my father, and that fact certainly does not keep me tossing at night.” Angelique opened the cover of the book Jessup had given her.

  “You’re of a different cloth than Sapphire.” Lucia folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you, Jessup.”

  “You are welcome, my love.” He came to stand beside her in the chair and took her hand, lifting it to his lips.

  “May I borrow this book, Jessup?” Angelique raised it in the air. “It’s about the American West and some people called Lewis and Clark. Henry will adore it.”

  “You most certainly may,” he answered as he stared adoringly at Lucia.

  “Thank you. I’ll be waiting in the carriage for you two love doves.” She left the room. “Don’t be long, and please do keep in mind your age and the fact that it is broad daylight.”

  Lucia laughed as Angelique sailed out of the office and Jessup leaned over to kiss her. “If I didn’t know better, I would think that was a challenge,” she said against his lips.

  “A challenge? Whatever do you mean?”

  Lucia rose out of the chair. “Does your door lock, Jessup, mon amour?”

  “It does.” He looked at her, his brows knitted quizzically. Then he realized why she had asked. “Oh my,” he said. “Oh my.”

  “Please tell me that you and your wife did not only exercise your marital rights in that bed, Jessup?” She looked over her shoulder as she made her way to the door and turned the key to lock it. “No offense to the dearly departed, but how dull.”

  “Oh my,” Jessup repeated, just standing there, his arms akimbo.

  Lucia came back to him, and standing directly in front of him, she lifted on her toes, kissed him and took his hand. “Let us go visit this settee, shall we, Jessup dear?” She led him toward the piece of furniture in the corner of the room. “It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a decade.” She smiled mischievously at him. “But we can resolve that, can’t we?”

  “Molly, wake up.”

  From a deep sleep, Sapphire heard a name being called, but she was in a far-off place and resisted the voice. Her head danced with thoughts of Blake, memories of his touch, of the taste of him and of the words they had exchanged the previous night, the most serious, probably most telling conversation they had ever shared.

  She remembered the cool, refreshing water of the bath. Lying in that tub of sweet-scented water had reminded her of the pools in Martinique, of the laughter she and Angel had shared, swimming and diving. Then she thought of the crisp, smooth, linen sheets of Blake’s bed, the softness of the down tick beneath them, the plumpness of the pillows and the comfort of his arm around her as they finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted but content. Nothing had been resolved, but there had been something different between them last night. She had been able to hear it in Blake’s voice, almost feel it.

  But this was not Blake’s voice calling her, and she was no longer in his bed. As she slowly woke, she became aware of the sound of Myra’s insistent voice and the feel of the lumpy pallet beneath her.

  “I tried to let ya sleep,” Myra said as she tugged on the sheet that was hot and sticky against Sapphire’s skin. “You looked plain worn out this morning. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, but Mrs. Dedrick is lookin’ for you. Somethin’ about you not bringin’ down Mr. Thixton’s sheets last night.”

  Sapphire opened her eyes and blinked. The windows under the eaves of the attic were small but a blinding light poured through them.

  “Molly,” Myra said again.

  “All right. I’m awake, I’m awake.” She threw off the sheet and sat up. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eight. Mr. Thixton’s gone, but he asked that he have dinner tonight on his upstairs balcony. Apparently, he’s expectin’ someone.” She rested both hands on her hips, looking down at Sapphire. “He wants you to serve. He gave Mrs. Dedrick ’plicit instructions.”

  Sapphire reached for her gray skirt and blouse. It was the same clothing she wore every day, but at least she’d been able to wash them out yesterday after she’d donned Felicity’s black uniform. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Sapphire asked, stepping into her skirt.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Where was I? Here.” She turned her back to Myra as she donned the dingy blouse. She didn’t want to lie to Myra but she certainly couldn’t tell her the truth. She had no idea after her conversation with Blake last night where their relationship was going. Now that she had finally admitted to herself that she loved him, she didn’t even know what to do about it. He hadn’t said he loved her. He’d only asked if that was what she wanted.

  Myra tapped her leather shoe on the rough, wide floorboards. “When I fell asleep, you weren’t here.”

  “When you woke I was.”

  Myra just stood there, and when Sapphire turned back around, Myra’s pretty mouth was frowning. “If you want my advice, you’ll stay ’way from the master.”

  Sapphire stuffed her blouse into the waistband of the hateful gray skirt and began to rake her fingers through her hair, tying it back as best she could without a mirror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. The two of you come over together on that ship. You was grateful for what he offered, a new life. Maybe escape from an old one, a bad papa, a bad marriage, debt. A girl does what she has to do sometimes to get along in this world,” Myra said philosophically. “But you’re here now and you got to guard your heart.” She hesitated. “’Cause I’ve known men like Mr. Thixton before. You’re not one of his kind, no matter what you think. No matter what sweet nuthin’s he might be whisperin’ in your ear. But in the end, you’ll have nuthin’ but a broken heart. He’ll break your heart, Molly, and maybe leave you ruined with a little stranger to raise. No decent house would have you as a parlor maid, then. I can tell you that fer nothin’.”

  Sapphire grabbed her mobcap off the peg on the wall, stuffed her auburn hair beneath it and stepped into her shoes. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but this is complicated, more complicated than I can possibly explain to you, which I cannot.”

  Myra just stood there and stared at her. “A broken heart ain’t that complicated, no matter who you are.” She turned for the door and walked out.

  Blake left the house early for his offices, located in a brick building on the street facing the harbor. It was one of the oldest buildings in Boston, having been occupied for a hundred years by businessmen such as himself. Since the founding of the colonies and the arrival of his mother’s people in the seventeenth century, Boston Harbor had been an important one, first to the colonies and Mother England, now to the world.

  Manford had been urging Blake for years to take office space in one of the newer Greek Revival-style buildings downtown, offices that offered less drafty winters and pubs and fine eating establishments close at hand. But Blake’s father had purchased the building when he was a young man, and though he had never been fond of his father, there was something comforting to Blake about passing through the same redbrick doorway his father had once used, so that he could be reminded each day what a bastard the man had been. It helped Blake check his words more times than he cared to admit. Of course, no man wished to acknowledge he had more of his father in him than he led others to believe, especially when his father had been such a man.

  Blake had a busy day planned, which was why he had left the house early, without breakfast or taking time to bathe. He also did not want to run into Sapphire.

  He’d been surprised when, at close to three in the morning, she had climbed out of his bed, donned the ugly black maid’s uniform and left him. It had angered him. What the hell did she want from him? He was offering her the world. He had the money, the capability to give her anything. Why was she so stubborn on this matter of who she was or was not? Didn’
t she understand that he didn’t care?

  Blake took a sip of his coffee and spat it back into the cup. “Givens!” he bellowed.

  “Sir?” The paneled door opened and the tall, slender man stuck his head through the doorway.

  “My coffee isn’t hot. I ask little of you, Givens, considering the exorbitant salary I pay you. Can my coffee not be hot first thing in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get another cup, sir. Mr. Lawrence is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.” Blake pushed back in his chair.

  “Good morning,” Manford said, walking in through the door, offering his hand.

  Blake rose and shook it. “How is your daughter this morning?” He gestured to a leather chair much like the red leather chair in Mr. Stowe’s office. He’d been thinking a lot about Mr. Stowe these past few days for some reason. Perhaps because he’d had to fire two barristers since he returned from London. Was there no barrister in Boston who was not a thief?

  “Thank you.” Manford sat, as did Blake. “Clarice is better, I think, though she was up most of the night. A most peculiar ailment.” He shook his head, reflecting. “And no one else at the dinner party became ill last night?”

  Blake shook his head, refusing to allow his thoughts to wander. Sapphire had not confessed to producing poor Clarice’s symptoms, and how would she do such a thing, anyway? Perhaps she’d been right, that it was just the sour young woman’s ill-humors coming out in her. “No one else was ill, as far as I know. I slept well last night.” He almost smiled, thinking how nice it had been to fall asleep with Sapphire’s warm, soft body against his. He’d missed sleeping with her since their arrival in Boston.

  “Well, a few days and I’m certain my dear Clarice will be fine.” Manford flashed a smile. “Though I imagine her social activities will be curbed for a few days as she is still unable to get more than a few feet from the necessary.” He slapped his hand on the desk. “So tell me what I need to know before this Mr. Falkin arrives. I told Mrs. Lawrence this morning that we were meeting with a man from Philadelphia who thinks he can produce fuel to light lamps from rock and she wanted to call in her physician to see if I was ill, as well.”

  Blake chuckled. “I know the idea sounds far-fetched, but I imagine many things have seemed impossible throughout history. I traveled here by steam engine—we rarely needed the sails and crossed in record time. A hundred years ago such a feat was beyond our imaginations. Hell, in our fathers’ time it was beyond our mind’s eye.”

  “So this Mr. Falkin, he believes he can produce this miracle from rock?”

  “He’s a scientist, a geologist. He’s been in close contact with an Englishman out of Nova Scotia whose work I’ve read. In England I met one of his colleagues. Mr. Falkin lives in Philadelphia but his research is known around the world.”

  “Yes, in the insane asylums worldwide,” Manford joked.

  Blake smiled. “I want you to listen to what Mr. Falkin has to say about this rock oil and the possibility it can be found in western Pennsylvania, but I don’t want you to feel in any way obligated to invest in this venture.”

  “Well, it is a bit different from what we usually do. Transportation of goods I know, but this…” Manford shook his head.

  “I understand, Manford. I also understand the importance of diversity, as do you. What if all of your assets had been tied up in whaling like the Crawford family’s?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, friend. I’m willing to listen, but I’m not positive I’ll be able to convince Mrs. Lawrence that this is a place she wishes to invest my hard-earned money.”

  Blake laughed. He had always admired Manford’s marriage, one of the few good ones he knew of. Manford loved his wife and she him, that was obvious, and they were true partners. Manford never made any important decisions without consulting his wife first.

  “According to geologists, there are rivers of rock oil flowing beneath the surface of the earth in Pennsylvania and many other places. The potential of such a new resource is unlimited. If rock oil can produce the power that ships need—that factories need—the possibilities are endless. Not to mention the profits those wise enough to invest early might realize.”

  Manford brushed at his graying sideburns with one hand. “And that brings us to another subject, one I’m not as comfortable speaking of.”

  Blake leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers. When he moved, he could have sworn he caught Sapphire’s scent, but it had to be his imagination. “What is it, Manford?” He frowned. “When are you ever reluctant to discuss anything with me? I thought you and I were beyond that.”

  Manford smiled. “As did I. Let me say first that I expect your complete honesty.”

  “Which you always get, whether you expect it or not.”

  Manford nodded. “It’s about Clarice…”

  Blake waited.

  “She…apparently fancies herself in love with you, according to my wife.”

  Blake looked down at his desk, piled with neat stacks of paper that needed to be attended to, as well as several books he’d acquired to read up on his geology before meeting with Mr. Falkin.

  “Go on.”

  “Now, I know you’ve escorted her to quite a few events, events Mrs. Lawrence and I also attended. Really, I saw it more as a favor than anything else. I thought perhaps the two of you…I suppose a part of me hoped…” He looked up. “A finer man I would not choose for my daughter, but—”

  “No, Manford,” Blake said quietly. “I’m not in love with Clarice.”

  Manford looked down at his hands again. “I thought not, but I had to ask.”

  “She’s a sweet girl, but—”

  “No, she isn’t,” Manford interrupted, tenting his hands in his lap. “I love her. She’s my flesh and blood, but she’s spoiled and self-centered. She is her grandmother through and through, and honestly, I would not wish that hell upon anyone.”

  The two men shared a laugh. Blake had met Manford’s mother-in-law on several occasions, so his friend had no need to elaborate.

  “I’m sorry,” Blake said.

  “You shouldn’t be.” Manford looked up. “I worry about you, though.”

  “About me?” Blake arched a brow. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? That beautiful mansion on that hill. Empty.”

  “I have my visitors.” Blake cracked a smile.

  Manford smiled with him. “But that’s not what I mean. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to have someone love you and know what it is to love without condition.”

  “You sound like one of those romantic writers,” Blake scoffed.

  “Be that as it may. It’s time you found a wife, started a family.”

  Blake was quiet for a moment. “Marriage is not what everyone strives to obtain,” he said, trying not to think of Sapphire, or how empty his bed had seemed this morning without her.

  “I just don’t want you to go your entire life, pushing your way blindly, missing what is the sweetest, what offers the most reward.”

  Blake scowled teasingly. “I’m with Mrs. Lawrence on the matter of you taking ill. You should have her call that physician of hers.” He rose, offering his hand.

  Manford got out of the chair, accepting it. “I’ll see you here at one, then?”

  “I’ve already received a message from Mr. Falkin this morning. He will be here promptly at one.”

  “Excellent.” Manford released Blake’s hand, stepping away from the desk. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Right now, I need to meet with a shipping agent and see if I can’t rip out his heart and have it transported with my next load of goods bound for London.”

  Blake laughed and returned to his chair. He reached for one of the geology books on his desk, pushing aside his conversation with Manford and any thoughts of Sapphire still lingering in his mind. “Givens!” he called. “Where the hell is that coffee?”

  “Mon chèr,” Tarasai sang as she entered Armand’s bedchamber. “Look what I have
brought for you.”

  He had been reading one of his botany books but not with much interest. “What have you brought me, dear?” he asked sitting up farther in his bed and removing his reading spectacles.

  She perched on the edge and reached behind his head to move a pillow. “Guess.” She grinned, her tiny, beautiful face seeming to glow with her pregnancy.

  He smiled and took her small hand in his, thinking it was probably just as well that he was dying. He was too old for young women like Tarasai, too old for such vibrant energy. “I cannot guess.”

  “Something you have wished for, mon amour.” She leaned forward bringing her face very close to his. “Une lettre.”

  “A letter?”

  She nodded, her smile ear-to-ear.

  “From Sapphire?”

  Again she nodded as she slipped her hand into the fold of her dress and drew out the paper addressed in handwriting he knew at once.

  “What does it say?”

  “Foolish old man,” she teased. “I do not read your letter.”

  He took it from her hand and grabbed his spectacles off the book, then pushed them onto his nose. His hands trembled as he opened the letter and smoothed it out on the linen sheet that covered his thin legs.

  “What does it say?” Tarasai asked. “She is well, yes?”

  The letter was short, but Armand read it through twice. “She has gone to America,” he exclaimed, feeling better than he had in days, perhaps weeks. “With a man she says I would like.”

  “She has married. You see, I told you your Sapphire would be well.”

  He shook his head. “No, no, it does not exactly say she married him.” He looked up, absently refolding the letter. “Actually, the note is quite odd. She usually rambles on. This was written quickly.”

  “But it says you are not to worry, yes?”