“Oh, Aunt, that would be so helpful. That is, if you don't mind.”
“You shall have it. But it is only proper you should go to your husband first. Tell him clearly you need money, and then let's see what he does.”
On her part, Clare was too kind to remind her aunt that her interference in their affairs in the past had caused only hard feelings. She said, “Thank you, Aunt.” Then she remembered the other reason she had come.
“Aunt, where is Nick? I have something to tell both of you.” She smiled shyly and patted her tummy. “Curly has given his permission to name our child Nicholas Samuel Drake, if it is a boy. Will Nicholas be pleased?”
Tears welled up in the Widow’s eyes. She wiped them quickly away. “I don't know, Clare. Nicholas no longer lives with me. He has rented a cabin in Bulette, where he plans to live after he marries that Vye creature. I suppose you have heard about it. Oh Clare, how can he be so cruel, when I have lived only for him? And now he hates me!”
“Hates you—oh, no,” Clare said soothingly. “It is only that he loves her so much. You are too hard on him. Think about the mothers whose sons have committed crimes or violence before you criticize Nick for his choice of a wife. She is both beautiful and talented. Is that so bad?”
“I expected more of my son. When Samuel died, I was still a young woman. I might have had another husband and more children, but now…” She spread her work-roughened hands out melodramatically.
“I will come and see you more often, Aunt. I promise.”
“God bless you, dear.”
“But do try to think better of Nick and Cassandra. They do so hope you will attend the wedding. We could go together.”
But Mrs. Brighton shook her head adamantly.
When Clare got home, she related to her husband how immovable the Widow was on the subject of Nicholas's wedding. Drake barely heard her words. His beautiful vixen would soon belong to another, and the feeling of loss was unbearable.
Towards evening on the day of her son's wedding, to which she remained unreconciled, Widow Brighton was surprised to see her son-in-law appear at her white gate. The Widow wondered if Drake had a touch of the apoplexy, which ran in his family, for he looked like a man who was about to explode.
Drake's message was that Clare was unwell, had not attended Nick's wedding, and would not be able to visit the Grange for some days.
“Too bad. I had something to give Clare,” murmured the Widow. She was thinking of the silver coins.
“Well, just give it to me,” offered Drake.
“I certainly will not!” she snapped.
Her curtness rocked Drake back on his heels.
“All I mean,” she murmured hastily, “is that it is women’s stuff. She would be more comfortable if I bring it to her.”
That was the end of their conversation. But as Drake went on his way, he grew angrier by the minute. Something was amiss. What had he ever done to either Brighton woman to deserve their continued disrespect?
There was a dice game out on Hatter's Field he had a mild interest in. His ailing wife could just wait longer on him. And as for the Widow, he would see her in hell before he volunteered to do her a courtesy again.
Widow Brighton was saying to Thomas Hawker, her day laborer: “Repeat your instructions back to me, Thomas.” As she did so, she handed him a wood box with the two sacks in it.
She had decided, after much wrestling with her conscience, to give Nicholas his portion of her husband's legacy via Clare. That way she would be bestowing a wedding gift on him from his father without standing down from her own principles.
“I am to tell them at the Plush Horse that I have come from the Widder and I need to see Missus Drake directly. I am to give this box only to her. I am to tell her there be two sacks, that one is for her and one is to be took to her cousin Nicholas. And if anyone stops me on the road, I am to say it is only rabbits inside.”
“Don’t say a word to Mr. Drake, if you see him. He is far too busy to be bothered.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now Thomas, I will tell you the contents of the box, because I don’t want you to set it down somewhere. They are silver coins handed down from my husband.”
“I will guard them with my life,” said Thomas solemnly.
“It will be better if you use your common sense. That will be all for today. Please return in the morning. There is more work to be done in the garden.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Thomas Hawker set off wearily, tired from a full day’s backbreaking work. He wanted to be with the others attending the wedding reception at Mill’s Creek, keeping an eye on his father and catching a glimpse of the redheaded bride everyone said was Satan's whore. What if he were accosted by robbers who guessed at the filthy lucre he carried? Besides, he had heard seeing a pregnant woman was bad luck. Thomas squatted down on his heels to ponder these issues before continuing on.
When he looked up, Curly Drake was standing about fifty yards away on the crest of a foothill, peering through a spyglass in the direction of Mill's Creek.
Drake put down the glass, through which he had been vainly searching for a signal from his lost love. His gaze was vacant and pained. Then he spotted Mayor Hawker’s youngest son staring at him. He grinned, as teasing Thomas was tip-top entertainment.
“Good evening, Thomas. What brings you out to this lonely place? You should be dancing at the wedding and making love to all the lasses.”
“Oh, I’m not much for dancing. The young ladies say I step on their feet too much.”
“Back in Scotland, we would get out our kilts and bagpipes, and dance a bagpipe for the ladies. That impresses 'em, by Mungo.” He noticed the box under Thomas’s arm. “What have you got there?”
“Just a box with a couple of rabbits in it.”
“Rabbits, you say?”
“Bringin’ em home to cook ‘em.”
“Far be it from me to keep a man from his dinner.”
“I’ll say goodbye then, sir.” As the young man started off, his feet dragged and his head drooped as if he were on his last legs.
Drake said, “Man, you look like you could use something more potent than rabbit stew. You are a sorrier sinner than I am tonight.”
Thomas stopped in his tracks and looked back.
“As it happens,” said Drake, “there is a dice game commencing any minute now, just down yonder. Me wife is home a-bed, and I am not dressed for a wedding party. Care to join some friends and myself for an hour of manly entertainment? We meet in a gully of Hatter's Field for a fling with Lady Luck.”
He clapped Thomas on the back when the lad edged nearer. The skinny, pockmarked young man regarded the innkeeper bashfully. “I heard you're a lucky man, Mr. Drake.”
“The luck belongs to you tonight, me lad.”
“Do you really think so?”
“We'll see.”
They turned toward Hatter's Field and walked to where, on a level piece of land bordered by two large rocks, were assembled five native men of varying ages. Bator, the undertaker (the young men called him Master Bator behind his back) was the ringleader in the evening's lottery.
As Thomas had a superstitious fear of Bator, Drake threw a penny in for him and gave him his numbered stub. The prize was a pack of French postcards. With a shudder, Thomas saw his number was thirteen.
He sat on the box and owlishly watched as the undertaker shook all the pieces of paper inside an earthenware jug. When Bator drew forth the winning ticket as number thirteen, Drake howled with laughter. He hauled Thomas forward to collect his prize before others could snatch it away.
“What will I do with 'em?” Thomas whispered to Drake.
“Why, you dumb ass. You look at 'em, of course. You have just proved Lady Luck's on your side, as I predicted. This is just the beginning for you.”
“Then I am lucky?”
“It is a proven fact, lad. 'Tis your night. Now, if you had any money to wager on the dice game, yo
u would walk away with a fortune.”
“For sure?”
“I swear by me mother's virtue and me father’s moustache.”
“What would you say if I told you I have a hundred silver coins in this here box I’m a-sitting on?”
“I would say you are a liar or a thief.”
“Nope. It was give to me by Mrs. Brighton. Here, I’ll show you.” Thomas furtively pulled the box aside, opened it, and showed Drake the two money sacks. “I'm to give this one to Mrs. Drake, with the other going on to the Widow's son. I guess she wouldn’t mind my tellin' you, Mrs. Drake bein’ your wife.”
Drake was stunned. Mrs. Brighton had trusted this fool over himself? He spoke angrily. “What a vicious thing to do. By rights she should of give her son's coins to the new Mrs. Brighton, as a proper wedding present.”
There was silence between them. Then Drake looked over slyly at Thomas and said, “First you show you have the luck, son, then it turns out you have a stake under your ass. All you have to do is reach for it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Drake. Something might go wrong.”
Curly pulled on his moustache, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Lad, I'm giving you my permission to use my wife's money. I’ll be the one to play against you. If you win, you pocket my money for yourself. If I should happen to win, I’ll give the money to my wife. No skin off anyone's nose. What say you?”
“Oh, that is very kind of you, sir. But I can't.”
“Tell you what. Oblige me with a game or two, I'll let you have a peek at Diane when she is in the outhouse one day. I'll show you where the secret hole is.”
“Pshaw. You would show me that?”
“What's a friend for, lad? Of course I will!”
So intent were both men on their conversation that neither noticed Caleb Scattergood had come up to the group. He was on his way home from the wedding reception at Mill's Creek. He now stood in the shadows, watching Thomas and Drake.
Thomas sat down cross-legged on the ground and stared at the dice. “Do you suppose these are really the devil’s playthings?”
“No more so than women,” said Drake coarsely. Then, as Thomas appeared to hesitate, he spoke more loudly. “Go ahead, man. Roll, and let the devil take the hindmost. It is my wife's money you play with.”
Lurking in the shadows, Caleb Scattergood heard only the last sentence.
Unhappily for Thomas, Lady Luck was not on the young man's side after all. It was nearly ten o’clock when Thomas flung the last of the silver coins on the flat stone table. It went the way of its comrades, into Drake's pocket. He turned his pockets inside out and hung his head in shame, feeling empty after the gambling fever had left him.
“What shall I do?” he bleated.
“Do?” said Drake coolly, standing up and adjusting his belt. “Go home, of course, and look at your pictures.”
He watched Thomas stagger off into the darkness. He hefted the box and chuckled. Then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Is my money any good here?” asked Caleb Scattergood. “Or perhaps you play only with halfwits, Mr. Drake, or when the dice are loaded.”
“By Mungo, you shall pay for your insolence!”
Chapter Twenty
A Pitched Battle
July, 1901
Mill's Creek
It is said Wyoming has only three months—July, August, and Winter. The weather was lovely in the first week of July, 1901. Even scruffy Hatter’s Field was sage-covered and gorgeous, dotted with patches of pink, purple, and yellow wildflowers. In the three hamlets, celebratory bonfires and homemade firecrackers in advance of the Fourth were set off by villagers in their shirt-sleeves and summer hats.
The degree of smokiness in the hot air, Widow Brown said, was “the breath of the devil invading the territory.” She told everyone who would listen she still had her eye on me, “that siren who snared Master Brighton.” Grandfather reported the slander to me, but I didn't care about the Widow's evil eye. I was happily married to a handsome, accomplished, and doting man, and I had not used my powers to get him as a husband.
Beyond our rude Bulette cabin lay a field of blue bonnets, Indian paintbrush, lupine, and shooting stars. We were living in a state of domestic tranquility which delighted us both. A cane-backed rocker and a gas-fired chandelier were recent acquisitions for indoor comfort. The warm weather made it pleasant for walking out of doors.
During this halcyon interval, my mind was active, planning for our future life in San Francisco. Even during the act of lovemaking with my husband, I would think about the time ahead when I would go out in my pony carriage onto the bustling streets of San Francisco. I visualized passing through the throngs along the Embarcadero, with all the aromatic smells of coffees, teas, and foreign spices in the air, living in the gay world Nicholas had described to me. There was a society we were both well suited to. I would not be consigned to loneliness; my Nick would be at my side.
After the first week, Nick brought out his books. The sight of those dusty tomes, with the image of change they represented, made me every day more eager for the launch of our future. Unlike Mother Brighton, I had a high regard for the intellectual class of men to which Nick belonged. I was confident my brilliant husband was destined for greatness. One day soon, he would submit to my will about the appropriate stage for his efforts. Though I found his choice of temporary employment distasteful, I kept my opinion to myself, knowing it was best to select my battles wisely. I was resigned to Nicholas's chasing after summer ice in the mountain peaks. It served to keep him well occupied, which was more than I can say for myself, alone in our dingy cabin.
It was hard not to suggest to my impoverished husband how willing my grandfather was to lend us money to lease a more proper home. The modest money he made was put aside. In my mind, it was earmarked for the founding of a private school on Nob Hill. I didn't realize my husband was just as fervently wrapped up in his own scheme, to educate the downtrodden American Indian in Wyoming. I kept my mind focused on his promise we would be out of the tiny cottage in a few months. I was so confident of having my way, that I told grandfather we would soon be making our permanent home San Francisco, a comment that drew a long face from poor Horatio.
After a few weeks, I summoned Horatio and Annie May to attend to our simple needs once a week. They came to the cabin together on horseback or on foot, and would sometimes stay overnight in a garden shed at the back of the little cabin.
One day I left the two in charge and rode over to Mill's Creek, to pay grandfather a long-overdue visit.
I was standing at Mill Creek's old mill pond, dwelling on the memory of passionate nights spent out on Hatter's Field in Curly Drake's embrace. I was startled by the sight of a hatless Mother Brighton, galloping toward me on her roan. I felt a pang of guilt about the sexual content of my daydream. Human guilt is not a comfortable emotion for a siren. It has always put me seriously out of sorts.
“I've come to talk to you,” said the Widow Brighton breathlessly, getting down from her horse.
“Why, hello. I didn’t at all expect you.”
“I've come on family business. I need to ask you a question. Have you recently received a gift from Clare’s husband?”
“A gift?”
“I mean money. Valuable coins, minted from the Colorado Silver Exchange.”
“What—for myself?”
“I meant yourself, though I wasn’t going to put it that way.”
“I accept a favor from Mr. Drake? No—never! Madam, what do you mean by that question?” At the mention of my old flame, I had fired up fast.
“I simply ask the question,” said Mrs. Brighton. “I've been worried—”
“From the first, you were against me,” I interrupted, more heatedly than I intended, but I was keenly stung by the insinuation in her question.
Said she, slowly and coldly. “You are wrong. I was simply for Nicholas.”
“Do you suggest he required guarding? Why do you think s
o badly of me? I have never done anything to hurt you.” Tears of passion and outrage were in my eyes, blinding me to whatever painful emotions might be expressed on my mother-in-law's face.
“I only did what I thought was best for Nicholas,” said Mrs. Brighton.”A mother’s instinct is to look out for her own. I would rather not be having this conversation, Cassandra, but you have forced it. I tried to dissuade him by any means in my power from marrying you. But it is done now, and I shall have to accept the Lord's will.”
“Yes, now you want to see your son, you can perhaps bring yourself to accept it. But your accusations are outrageous. Why do you think there is anything between me and Mr. Drake? We are both married to others. I won’t be falsely accused by you or anyone. It was a sacrifice for me to marry your son.”
Mrs. Brighton drew up taller.
“A step down, you regard it? Our lineage is every bit as good as yours. Better, I would venture to say.”
I had been thinking of my ancient siren heritage, not my social position, so her assertion of superiority only made me angrier.
“You mistake my meaning. If Nick had not insisted, I—I would never have agreed to marry.”
“You would be better advised not to say that to my son. I’m not aware of any deception on his side. If there was any, it was on your side. I have heard the stories about you and Drake.”
Truly incensed, I stomped my foot. “Oh, this is too exasperating! I only hope in the future you will be silent on this mistaken idea of my eagerness to marry. You’ll only be making a fool of yourself.”
My eyes shot fire, but hers fired back. She countered, “How dare you speak to me like that? Are you implying I would talk against you in public?”
“Of course! You did so before our marriage. You now falsely accuse me of secretly favoring a former lover for money, even after my marriage.”
“I can’t help what I thought before, and I was doing what I thought best. I stand by that.”
“As I will now.”
“Which will be, I'm sure, to poison Nick against me, his poor mother!”
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