He spat a pernicious curse as he retraced his steps to find her.
“DONNIGAN!”
Evelyn and Brock turned to see Lucius emerge through a cluster of men and canvas.
“I told you to stay away from us!” he shouted.
He stormed up to Brock and slapped his hand away from Evelyn, who leapt back in alarm.
Lucius jabbed a finger into the Australian’s chest.
“You touch her, you speak to her, you so much as look at her like that again, and I promise I will kill you,” he told him. “We’re done with you, boyo. You hear? We’re done.”
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Brock remarked. “The duchess has a mind of her own, and she can come back to me anytime she wants.”
Lucius sneered.
“She doesn’t want you,” he hissed. “You’re no good for her.”
“You might remind her of that.”
“Stop it!” Evelyn demanded.
Lucius turned to her, and it occurred to him that perhaps she had chosen to stay behind. The thought sat sour in the pit of his stomach and took the fire from his opposition.
He took a step away from his rival, his every muscle tense with rage and jealousy.
“I will kill you,” he said again, lifting his hard eyes to meet Brock’s and despising the smug look upon the outlaw’s face. “I mean it.”
He reached out and took Evelyn by the wrist, leading her away.
“I’ll be here when you change your mind, love,” Brock called out.
It took everything in Lucius to keep walking, but walk he did, with a conflicted Evelyn Brennan in tow.
When they were out of Brock Donnigan’s sight, Evelyn wrenched her arm away from Lucius.
“I am sick to death of being handled by men!” she cried.
Lucius stopped walking and spun round to look her in the eye.
“Do you want a gentleman?” he asked.
“What?”
“Answer the question, lass.”
“Of course I want a gentleman.”
“All right. A gentleman. A man who will look after you, keep you safe, love you, honor you. A man who will open the door and pull out your chair and bring you wildflowers to set in a vase on top of your piano. A man who will look at you in fifty years and see you as you are right now, young and lovely. This is the kind of man you want.”
“Yes.”
“Then stay away from Brock Donnigan.”
He turned and continued to walk, with Evelyn close behind.
“You don’t know him,” she replied.
“No, I don’t. Not like you. And you know him well enough to know I’m right.”
She stopped then and stared after Lucius. She stood between them: him and Brock, the choice looming before her. She could follow Lucius, keeping the promise she had made to him, or she could turn around now and run back to Brock’s ready arms, accepting every promise he was willing to make.
But what had made Brock change his mind? He had been an isolated, sniveling child on the road from Gorgona, wanting nothing more to do with Evelyn and the others. He left her at the Washington Hotel without so much as a word of farewell, forfeiting any bond of trust that had existed between them.
Lucius was right. She did know Brock. She knew how poorly he handled disappointment, how easily he abandoned her when he did not get what he wanted.
But he came back. He returned to her, with penitent eyes and commitment on his lips.
She glanced over her shoulder in Brock’s direction, and Lucius watched her hesitation with a sinking heart.
“Come away, lass,” he said.
She looked at him then, and he saw the tears in her eyes.
“Please, Evelyn,” he pleaded softly, his chest aching at the sight of her. “You deserve so much better.”
Chapter Thirty
They quietly returned to camp, and Lucius helped Samuel tie a line for laundry while Evelyn disappeared into the tent to shed a maudlin tear or two. It had been hard enough to deny Brock Donnigan the first time, when she had possessed the momentum that came with a clear mind. She had made her decision and been faithful to her principles. She had time and warning on her side, and had been able to think through her decision and come to a ready conclusion.
But this afternoon, just the sight of him had sent her head spinning. And then to look in his eyes, to feel his strong hand on her arm, to listen as he spoke with such potential… He had reconsidered, whereas before he had given her a resounding ‘no’. He missed her. He wanted her. And he even offered the possibility of honoring her sense of propriety.
But Evelyn Brennan was not one to be manipulated by emotion. She was a very sensible person, and she was determined to stay that way.
So, in consequence, she had walked away from Brock Donnigan. For the second time.
It was for the best, she preached to herself. She must stick to her decision, no matter what the consequences. No matter how much he claimed to miss her, Brock Donnigan was the same man who had seduced her with a bottle of rum. His tactics had not changed; for now he tried to seduce her with words. And promises. And as much as she wanted to believe him, she knew Lucius was right.
She deserved better.
However, that knowledge did not make her refusal any easier.
When she had composed herself, she emerged from the tent to find the men hanging clothes alongside Josephine and Adele, with Bartie sitting in the dirt playing with blocks. It was a pleasant scene, and everyone was laughing at something Samuel had said.
Evelyn approached Lucius, holding out the rusted coffee tin. He stopped what he was doing to acknowledge her, and when he saw his prize, he shook his head.
“No, Miss Brennan.”
“It’s yours. Take it,” she told him.
“I didn’t earn it.”
“You earned it days ago, and you know it. Take it, Lucius.”
It was true. Lucius’ girlfriends had never seen their lover comfort a grieving widow, nor look after a young, vulnerable girl, nor attack a monkey, nor deny a drink, nor hang a line of laundry. They had swooned over him for far less gracious gestures.
Evelyn reprimanded herself for challenging him, for demanding he prove himself. She was tired of pretense, of men who lied to get what they wanted. No matter how silly Lucius Flynn might be, at least he did nothing to hide who he truly was.
Hesitantly, he accepted the small gift.
“Thank you.”
Evelyn sighed.
“It has been quite the afternoon. I think I shall turn in for the night.”
“But we haven’t had supper.”
“I haven’t an appetite. Good night.”
She fled then, returning to the tent with Lucius watching after her.
* * *
Each day they woke to the peal of bells. Upon rising, the emigrants directed their gaze to the sea in hopes they would see more than just the naked horizon. They were told to listen for a cannon shot, to withhold the energy lost by thwarted expectations, and to adopt something of a daily routine until they heard that distinct boom, a harbinger of change. It was senseless to schedule one’s affairs around the scant possibility of continuing on to California. One could waste an entire day dreaming and preparing, dragging time into an endless inferno of disappointment, which left one angry, disillusioned, and, at worst, insane.
One should not look to the horizon, for these many reasons, but most could hardly help it. It was a sickness, and the contagion increased with every new traveler, every bit of news from the gold fields, and every rumor that a ship was on its way. Days turned into weeks, and the distant waters reflected naught but sun, moon, and sky. There were no ships, and American Camp began to feel like some forgotten city at the edge of the world, where adventurers arrived but never departed.
As he had little time apart from the women, Lucius had to entertain himself in new ways, for slipping out to indulge old habits was not feasible. Since her husband’s death, Adele had lost her taste for the gamers
’ table, and the others certainly had no desire to drink or play. Samuel Davies was a valuable addition to their party, but he was no nanny, and Lucius could not ask the man to become one while he slipped away to have a bit of fun.
Lucius often found himself glowering at the dirt while thinking of how much he despised Brock Donnigan for putting him in this predicament. If the Australian had not been so selfish, Stephen Whitfield would still be alive and Lucius could have his romps, just as he had done on the Steam Rose. The Whitfield family would have their protector, and he, Lucius, would not be forced to remain in the ever intoxicating and maddening presence of Evelyn Brennan. That woman was a torch, burning hot and bright one moment, then snuffing out with a sigh the next, becoming cool and distant. They had interacted little after the Donnigan fiasco, which had seemingly put Evelyn on her guard. She had erected a wall no man could scale. Especially Lucius. Whatever progress they had made towards camaraderie had been revoked. When she had surrendered the coffee, it was as if she abandoned all efforts of reconciliation. In Lucius’ terms, Brock had placed a high bet, Evelyn had folded, and Lucius was yet to make his move, for he was still brooding about the way the game was unfolding. Though not all the cards had been revealed, Lucius had the distinct feeling he was losing.
* * *
Evelyn had meant what she said. She was tired of being handled by men. When she walked away from Brock, she swore an oath of independence. From that moment on, she would not stop, nor sway to the left or right, nor succumb to a backwards slide, till she achieved her freedom.
She devoted herself to filling the hours by expanding her knowledge and learning new, useful skills. When she was not improving her mind by reading, or increasing her talents by drawing, she was being mentored by Adele and Josephine, learning how to stitch and mend, remove stains, brew remedies for various maladies with herbs and spices, and cook an assortment of delicious foods. At the close of the day, her sense of progress as an industrious female was enough to inspire feelings of satisfaction.
Adele and Josephine spent much of their time chasing after Bartholomew, who, being a curious little fellow, possessed great resolve to rummage through other campsites. He became quite a favorite among the other men, who stopped to kneel and flick the boy’s nose or otherwise coddle him, praise his fine looks, or shed a homesick tear for their own small sons, whom they had left crying in their mothers’ arms. Some of the men whittled toys for Bartie from pieces of wood, some gave him candy from their own private stores, and others drew pictures in the dirt of pigs and chickens and other creatures from their farms back east.
With each tender encounter, the boy’s mother shed hot, sharp tears, and the release formed a healing balm around her mourning heart. Though Bartholomew had lost a father, he had won the paternal affection of many childless men, and had become something of a pet brother to those boys who were too young to have sons of their own.
Adele Whitfield was pleasantly surprised by the affection her son inspired, and as time progressed, she discovered her own small joys. Each morning, before the bells announced the new day, she crept from her bed, kissed Bartholomew on the forehead, and stole away in the pale light of dawn. Nearby was a lonesome palm tree, and below it rose a smooth stone that faced the sea. She seated herself, removed her shoes, and curled her toes against the cool earth, luxuriating in the breeze that ruffled the hem of her dress and tickled her bare ankles.
In the stillness, she closed her eyes and recalled her husband to life. She whispered things to him, told him of her trials, her triumphs, her difficulties, and her victories. She spoke of Bartholomew, of Evelyn and Lucius, of Samuel Davies. She described the camp, and the city, and the way it felt to wait day in and day out for a ship that never came. She laughed about old memories, and she cried over others. She said how she missed him, how she loved him, and how each moment without him was like a stretch of eternity. And then, when all her words were finished, she imagined what it would feel like to touch him again, to have his arms around her, to have his lips pressed against her own.
Through these encounters, she extracted the strength he no longer offered, the strength she needed to survive another day. For in the soft embrace of dawn, when heaven felt so near, Stephen did not feel so very far away.
* * *
Samuel Davies became a permanent fixture in the lives of his neighbors, and was a welcome accompaniment on market days, when it was time to replenish the company’s supply of food. He escorted the ladies through the teeming streets of Panama City, warding off thieves with his intimidating size, and winning the favor of the merchants, with whom he had become conversationally fluent. The Panamanians respected any foreigner who took the trouble to learn their language, which resulted in better bargains and lower prices on food and goods.
Evelyn and Adele were objects of fascination wherever they went. Kindly seamstresses insisted upon dressing them with the local attire, so they were measured and fitted for new dresses. They felt silly and indecent, but the brightly arrayed costumes were suited to the climate and were much more breathable than the stifling fashions of London and New York, reducing perspiration, headaches, and irritability to such a degree that even Evelyn could not resist the temptation to wear her new gown from time to time.
The city children were fascinated by Josephine, with her milky white skin and eccentric eyes, and they were desperate to hear her speak. They told her to repeat after them, then slowly enunciated their words, but Josephine only laughed and shook her head. At this, the children considered other forms of communication, and decided that this quiet girl did not have to know how to speak in order to know how to play. They took hold of her and pulled her towards the field, where they introduced her to their favorite sport, which involved kicking a leather ball from one end of the field to the other. Josephine was familiar with the game, as it was a favorite among the street children in London, and when the Panamanian children discovered this, they went wild. Word spread to every corner of the city that a white girl had come to play, and as many of the natives had never seen a white child, they appeared in droves. Some were frightened, some were ecstatic, and all were curious. A few of the children were as young as Bartholomew, toted along by an older brother or sister, while others did not have any relations, and tottered alone down the streets of the city until they reached the playing ground.
Not all were so young. Some were as old as Evelyn, mostly boys, and the sight of them inspired curiosity among the forty-niners. Soon players of every age and race joined the game, while others watched from the sidelines as the entertainment unfolded.
Amateur bookies began to take bets on the winners while the rest of the children willingly surrendered the competition to the older, fiercer players. They danced and screamed for their local heroes while giggling over the fumbling attempts of the foreigners. When they were feeling especially naughty, they jumped into the fray and kicked the ball in favor of the Panamanians, returning to the sidelines to be chastised by their mothers while the other children applauded them. This was vastly entertaining to the white men, who had a hearty laugh over the little brown-faced miscreants.
The sport was a pleasant alteration to the daily routine of the transients. When the first game was over, exhausted players were replaced with fresh ones, and another game ensued. An ecstatic Lucius Flynn was among the new competitors, and as he was smaller and swifter than the rest, he quickly held a valued position. The Panamanians intensified their defense while the forty-niners fought diligently to keep the ball in front of Lucius. The bets climbed in his favor, and as he scored the winning point, he became an instant celebrity among the other miners.
The games continued throughout the ensuing days, initiated by the children in the morning and proceeded by the adults in the afternoon and evening. Josephine joined the ranks of the younger competitors and earned her fair share of playtime, with Evelyn, Adele, and Bartie cheering wildly in the distance. Then, as the age levels increased with the hour, Lucius took his place on the f
ield. He once coaxed Adele Whitfield to join him, but only after much persuasion, promises of fair play, and a ridiculous bit of pouting. The children were exultant, dancing around her legs and pulling on her dress, while Josephine and Evelyn were beside themselves with laughter, for the sight of that clean white lady among those filthy players was a hilarious spectacle indeed.
The game began, and Adele lasted all of ten minutes before she was so winded she could barely stand. She returned huffing and puffing to a jubilant Evelyn and Josephine.
As a body was needed to resume her position, all eyes were planted on Evelyn Brennan, who was immediately beseeched to step onto the field. Alarmed, she did not quite know how to respond to the request, so she searched the nearby faces of her friends for aid.
“Go on then, my dear Evelyn,” Adele panted. “I daresay you shall do much better than I!”
Conspiratorially, Lucius caught Josephine’s eye from across the field and gave her a wink. The maid nodded, got to her feet, and took hold of Evelyn’s arm. She proceeded to pull her mortified friend onto the field.
“Josephine!” Evelyn cried. “You naughty girl! What are you doing?”
Grinning mischievously, Josephine did not release Evelyn until the older of the two was standing in the middle of the field, beside an exuberant Lucius. Only then did Josephine run away, returning to the sidelines to receive the accolades of the other children.
“You ready for this, lass?” Lucius asked with an impish expression.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes at him.
“Why, Lucius, don’t you remember?” she replied, careful to keep her voice steady, lest she allude to how nervous she felt. “‘I can do anything you can do, you silly boy.’”
Lucius grinned then, and for a moment, they were children again.
The game resumed and the Panamanians kicked the ball. It arched high in the air, disappearing in the brightness of noonday, and Evelyn shielded her eyes in an attempt to locate it. The sun was against her, and without proper warning, the ball descended upon her skull with a sickening thud, bringing with it a foreign pain and a veil of darkness.
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 27