“Non, non,” Moira said in irritation, rising. “I’ll receive him.” She ran a hand over her hair and smoothed her dress, donned a nonchalant smile and opened the door. But the grim expression on Francois’s face immediately shredded any semblance of propriety she maintained. “Francois?”
He wearily shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. “Come, mon ami. Let us sit in the parlor. I have much to tell you.” He offered his arm. Moira numbly took it and allowed him to lead her into her own sitting room. Antoinette stood, waiting for her mistress’s direction.
“Tea, and plenty of it,” Francois said, waving her off. He sat on an ottoman by Moira’s knees, so he could take both of her hands in his.
“You are frightening me.” Francois was always jovial, a chipper bear of a man, her friend who always made her feel better, brighter, when he was around.
“Forgive me. But it is bad, very bad.”
“Quickly, simply tell me. All of it.”
Francois swallowed hard and ducked his chin into the folds of fat at his neck. His eyes shifted left and right as he searched for a way to begin.
“Francois—” Moira scolded.
“Max is gone. He boarded a ship yesterday evening, bound for Lisbon.”
“Portugal?”
“Portugal.”
Moira pulled her hands from his and leaned back. She turned her head to the side, and rested an elbow on the thickly padded arm, knuckles to lips. “He always wanted to see Portugal, wanted me to consider the growing opportunities there—”
“He has a new client. A young thing he discovered in the Moulin Rouge.”
Moira dropped her hand from her mouth and let out an outraged laugh. “The Moulin Rouge?” For three years, she had been Max’s client; in the last two, she had been Max’s only client. Why leave her now? For a fallen songstress from the red district? “Were they …” she sputtered. “Were they in love?”
“It appears so.”
“So he stole all my money for some tart?”
“It appears so,” he repeated. He cleared his throat.
Her eyes moved to him again. “There is more.”
“He departed yesterday, because somehow, he found out from Sylvain what I myself did not know—that the Opera Comiqué would be closing immediately.”
“What?” Moira rose and paced the Persian-rug covered floor. “Of what madness do you speak? How could … the Opera Comiqué?”
Francois grimaced. “The owners … you know how they are, always bickering. Patrice, Roland, Sylvain—are now in legal dispute. Since they cannot agree on a solution, a judge has forced them to close for three months. There is money owed to …”
He went on, describing the foolishness of men that had brought the owners of the opera house to such a grim halt. It would cost them thousands of francs. It would cost Francois a job. And for her … she well knew that every opera house was booked out for a month or more. Some for several months. She could not simply move to another and secure a suitable role. Suitable roles took months and years to procure. Suitable roles were Max’s responsibility, planning out her future, their future. She leaned a hand against the wall and covered her eyes with the other. Her heart sank. Max … not you.…
Francois came over to her and placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “You need not fear, mon ami. I will take care of you until we find another opera, another stage.”
She shook her head and moved away from him. She turned to wearily face him. “No, Francois. I must depart Paris. I’ll be a laughingstock. I cannot bear such humiliation. Perhaps in London I can make a fresh start.”
“You are leaving? How can you leave?” He stared at her bleakly.
“How can I stay?” she cried out. Antoinette arrived then with a tray in hand. “Please, Antoinette, set it there.” The girl bobbed her curtsey and departed, her eyes rife with curiosity over the conversation at hand. She’d have to be dismissed by nightfall. Along with her father, Antoine, the doorman, the cook, and the housekeeper … How much would it cost to pay them all what she owed them? Max took care of all of that, every last detail. How could she function without him?
And yet how could she not? How could she have placed her life in the hands of a man?
“S’il vous plait—” Francois said, taking a step toward her, hands outstretched.
“Non, Francois. No, no, no!” she said, putting one hand up. “Please. You will need funds to keep yourself until you find another stage. I cannot be a burden to you.”
“You would never—”
“Please. Please. Don’t you see?” she dropped her voice and leaned toward him. “Within days, this will all be gone. My house, my lovely things. My creditors will come to collect in vases and glassware. My servants will take their wages in clocks and rugs. I cannot stay here and watch it. I cannot bear it.”
“You, you have nothing set aside? Another bank account, investments?”
She lifted her chin. “I have spent my inheritance becoming Moira St. Clair. The Moira St. Clair that so enchanted this city, even you, dear Francois. That was my investment. But now, here I am, and my account has been emptied by my agent. In another year or two I would have…. But not now. And I will not remain here to become the city’s favorite topic of gossip. There are people,” she paused, “there are people who would revel in my struggle.”
“What will you do? What if you reach London, and there is no work to be found?”
She turned away and forced herself to return to her chair and pour tea for her guest. She added a spoonful of sugar and a bit of cream, as she knew he liked it, and stirred, then gently set it on the table to her right. A card, sitting on a small receiving tray, caught her attention, reminding her of another, upstairs. Jesse. Jesse McCourt. He’d escort her to London, help her find a suitable role. He’d understand this. And he’d recently been in London. He knew the right people.
With a surge of newfound hope, she smiled up at Francois. “Come. Come, my friend, and sit. We shall share our last cup of tea, and we will dream of the day we are once again reunited.”
They are gone, all gone. More than fifty of the finest horses to ever wander this marvelous country, and now they lay unbreathing beneath a funeral shroud of snow. I ventured out today to see, in spite of Bryce’s objection, wishing to say my farewell to companions that once gazed upon us with wide, wise eyes, laced with long lashes. Companions that once ran across fields of green and through brown brush, as free and powerful and relentless as the trains that rumble down the tracks. I was once accustomed to Death, knew it by sense as clearly as if I could smell it. But now, here, I have been free of his visitations for almost four years. Bryce has not lost more than three horses since my arrival. No neighbor has perished. Death’s return is most assuredly unwelcome, leaving me trembling with sorrow. And seeing these horses, once so full of life, so full of promise—
Bryce laid a hand on her shoulder, making her jump. She had not heard his approach up the stairs, nor across the floor that led to her desk. “Sorry,” he said, sinking wearily into a chair beside her.
“No, it’s fine.” She stared at him and paused, choosing her words. “Will you burn the carcasses, Bryce?”
“Eventually. But not yet. They’re frozen still. And it’s snowing again.”
Her eyes flicked to the window, hoping her husband was wrong. But of course he wasn’t. She held her breath. The gray clouds, heavy with moisture, the fat flakes drifting down. She felt fear she hadn’t felt since battling the consumption, or since the night she went into labor. The doctor had told her she was too frail to carry a baby, shouldn’t carry a baby. Bryce had been beside himself, so anxious was he that he might lose Odessa as well as their child. But she had waged the battles of labor and delivery with ease, and Samuel, well, Samuel had been perfectly healthy from the start. Memories of that first beautiful night when they were first a family comforted her. Somehow, some way, this chapter of their lives would pass too.
Samuel cried then, and
Bryce rose with Odessa. “Stay. I’ll get the boy.”
She sank back into her chair and dipped her pen in the ink, but she couldn’t think of what else to say. All she could see in her mind were the lifeless eyes of the first horse she came upon, a brown beauty that would never carry either foal or rider, never roll in the dust or toss her head as she ran. She heard Bryce pause in the hallway, felt his gaze, and then Samuel’s soft baby sounds. Odessa turned and looked over her shoulder, watched her husband kiss the babe’s head, leave his lips there and close his eyes as he bounced, as if he was memorizing the feel of the child.
“How do we do this, Bryce? It is so mind-numbingly tragic, so horrific. How can you go on as if nothing more than the average day has transpired?”
He opened his eyes and stared into hers, then gave her a little shrug. “It is life, Odessa. Truly life on the frontier. We have thankfully been free of Death’s shadow for some time. But here it is again. The important thing is not to dwell long upon the loss; the important thing is to dwell upon the gifts.”
“The gifts?”
Bryce nodded. “We did not lose all the horses. Our finest remain, sheltered in the stables. And some might still be on the other side of the fields, waiting on us.”
“If they do not perish in tonight’s storm,” Odessa said bitterly. She regretted the words as she watched Bryce recoil.
He was silent for a moment. “Some might survive. And we still have those here, in and near the stables where we can better keep an eye on them. And we lost no men in the storm. All are accounted for. In weather like we’ve seen, men often head out into the white and disappear, their bodies lost until spring, if not forever. We can hope, hope for those horses out there.”
“Indeed,” she said in a whisper. How did he do that? Manage to comfort her and call her attention to the ways she fell short at the same time? She was grateful for his wisdom, along with a hundred other things that made her adore him. God could not have picked a finer mate for her. If anything happened to him …
She shivered as he coughed, his lungs obviously tight after the exertion outside. For so long they had been well, free of Death. But now, had their luck run out?
A night and two days into their voyage, Nic could still not believe he was here.
“Heave!” shouted Terence Overby, the first mate who had pressed him into service. Together, sixteen men stood amidships and pulled along two massive ropes, edging the main sail up. “Heave, men, heave!”
Nic did as he was told, but his eyes edged past Terence to Ulric Ross, a short, fat, balding man who wielded unmitigated power on this ship. Nic wondered how he managed it, with more than ten men who outweighed him by fifty pounds. It certainly wasn’t physical prowess that gained him such power. It was something else, and Nic was determined to find out. Use your brain as well as your brawn, his father had once told him.
He’d need both to get out of this mess.
Terence shouted again and the men hauled backward on the rope, fighting the wind to bring the sail fully upright. But with the wind came the swells, and some washed over the starboard edge as they gained speed, then drained out through the scuppers. Upon the first mate’s next call, Nic dug in and pulled, but his shoes slipped on the wet planking. He was suddenly flat on his back.
The other sailors roared with laughter and all work came to a halt. Terence shouted, “Turn to!” and some obediently turned away, but two others—Wade and Verne—stayed where they were, seemingly unable to do anything but wipe the streams of tears that left the corners of their crinkled eyes.
Humiliation quickly transformed into fury. Nic pulled in his legs and then leaped to his feet, a trick he had learned in the ring. The two sailors stopped laughing, their eyes widening in wonder. “Oh, oh, look out,” cried Wade, “the lubber’s beset!” Nic drew back his right arm to punch Verne, but a steely hand stayed him. He turned to attack whoever held him, and almost succeeded in striking the man. Thankfully, his fist stopped just short of reaching Terence’s jaw.
“Stand down,” said the first mate, never flinching.
Nic dropped his arms and stepped away. To strike the first mate or captain would only lead to lashes or even death. Nic had spent enough time on ships—heretofore as a passenger but paying enough attention—to fully understand this.
Terence stepped forward, until his face was but an inch from Nic’s.
“I don’t like being laughed at,” Nic said lowly, daring to meet his first mate’s eyes.
“Sailors laugh, man, every chance they get. If you don’t laugh, the elements come and claim you.” He narrowed his eyes at Nic. “Move beyond it.”
“I see nothing funny. I’ve been taken, stolen, shanghaied!”
“We’ve been through this, St. Clair. Accept your lot and get on with it, man.”
“Not until I speak to the captain.”
“You speak to me. That is as well and good as speaking to the cap’n.”
“No, it isn’t, since the captain is the one who decided to abduct me. What is he really after? Ransom?”
The first mate let a slow smile edge up his lips. “Someone at home ready to pay to get you back, boy?”
Nic’s lips clamped shut, suddenly recognizing his error. The last thing he wanted was to have Odessa, Moira—“No. No! I simply can’t spend six months aboard this ship wondering why, wondering if there might not be some other solution. I must speak to him. I must.”
“No. Your resolution is to accept your lot and become a good sailor. That is the only solution you need.”
“I cannot!” He looked beyond the first mate to the captain. “Captain! Cap’n Ross! May I have a word with—”
The punch sent Nic whirling to the deck again. Two men took hold of his arms and brought him to his feet before his head stopped spinning. He blinked, trying to focus on the first mate, who massaged his right fist. He’d have to remember to avoid that punch again—there was a power there that he’d seldom experienced, even in the ring. Terence leaned in toward him, “I am the cap’n, as far as you’re concerned, man. You have a concern? You bring it to me. Never the cap’n.”
Nic studied him for several long seconds. “Captain!” he shouted, looking past Terence. “I must have a word with you!”
He dodged the first mate’s next punch, stifling a smile as Terence hit Wade in error. But he didn’t anticipate the left to his stomach that came right after it.
“Enough,” said the captain, suddenly beside Terence.
Nic looked up at him, still doubled over and gasping for breath.
“It was a punch like that that took you down in the ring, St. Clair,” said the captain. “Are you slow? Daft?”
“I don’t like to think so,” Nic said, still gasping for breath. “It is a desire to become more … knowledgeable, sir, that begs for an audience with you. I must understand some things in order to make my peace in being aboard your ship and in your service.”
“I could care less about whether you’re at peace. Just do your job. You might or might not get your ‘audience.’” He turned to walk away, paused, and then looked to his right. “Lash him to the mast.”
“Sir, yes’sir.”
The other sailors ignored Nic as the sun set and the chill of night crept over the ship’s edges. Nic stared straight ahead. He was furious.
All he had wanted was a word with the captain. A word! He wanted the man to tell him himself why he felt Nic owed him six months of service. He had not thrown that fight. He had lost money on it himself. And the captain must’ve known that he hadn’t lost for weeks, otherwise why would he have made such a bet? What kind of mad thinking was this? Or was it merely a means to populate his dwindling crew? He’d discovered that he was not alone in his predicament—he had seen at least six others dragged aboard. But none of the others spoke English.
He’d been standing for five hours now, lashed to the massive mast with heavy ropes from shoulder to thigh. His feet were numb and he tried to lift them a bit, pushing against the
ropes, to allow some circulation to return. But it was to no avail. He turned his head leeward and squinted into the darkness, his eyes hungry for the dim outline of land. They traveled south, and considering the stiff wind and full sails they had enjoyed since embarking on this journey, Nic guessed they were nearing Uruguay. He’d gathered from talk among the crew that they’d seek new provisions somewhere in southern Argentina before attempting to round the Horn.
A man above him in the nest clanged a bell. “Two bells and all is well,” he called.
Nic didn’t know him. Did he spend each night on watch? It was cold, grim work, shivering in the night wind, trying to see shapes in the darkness until his eyes ached. “Ahoy, there!” Nic called upward.
Silence greeted him.
“Ahoy, mate! May I ask your name?”
In the dim light of the one lantern on deck, swinging before the captain’s doorway, Nic thought he saw a head peek over the side of the nest. But then it was gone.
“Is this your watch, mate?” he tried again. “Every night?”
A man’s voice hissed down at him from the ropes. “Are you daft?”
Nic turned his head, trying to see him, but failing. The man was too far behind him. “More idle than daft, I hope. What’s your name?”
“William. Now cease your chatter and see your lot through. The cap’n will move you from the mast to the bowsprit if you don’t.”
Nic sighed and stared straight ahead again. The farther south they moved, the farther from his apartments, his possessions, his work he became. It was likely lost by now anyway, his temporary home ransacked as word of his imprisonment spread.
HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Page 2