by Jane Toombs
"May I escort you to your lodgings?"
"That won't be necessary. It's only a block away."
"Then I shall wait in the street until I see you turn in to the boarding house."
He escorted her down the steps to the sidewalk. Seeing a glow in the sky, Monique felt a sudden rush of panic. Had the fire rekindled? A moment later she realized what she saw was the first light of dawn.
"Thank you again, Mr. Clemens,” she told him.
"I've decided to go by my other name,” he said, more to himself than her, she thought. “The one I use in the Enterprise. In the future I'll be known as Mark Twain."
She smiled at him and walked away, wondering if he knew changing one's name could change everything.
As she neared the boarding house, her pace slowed. Philippe would be there, she was sure, probably sleeping off the effects of the night before. She could never forgive him for what he'd done, and she'd have to leave him. But, despite Alex Campbell, she didn't want to leave Virginia City, which she'd claimed for her own. Surely she could find work here. Thinking of Sam Clemens—no, Mark Twain—naming her The Flame of Virginia City made her smile for a moment.
All around her the city was awakening. Pans clattered in the kitchen of a café next door, carts rattled past, miners’ feet thudded on the boardwalks. It was time for her to face Philippe.
When she reached the second floor landing of the boarding house, she realized she'd lost her key, along with her clothing, in that room in Chinatown. She raised her hand to tap on the door and paused when she saw it was ajar. That was unlike Philippe, drunk or sober. She stepped into the room and saw, in the dim light of early morning, Philippe sitting at the far side of the table with his head down on the wood, cradled in his arms. She called his name, but he didn't answer. Was he still drunk?
She crossed the room, repeating his name louder. Still no response. Hurrying around the table so she could shake him by the shoulder to rouse him, she halted abruptly. A knife protruded from his back. Heart thudding, she felt his wrist for a pulse and found it not only without pulse, but chill with death.
"No!” she cried. “Not you, Philippe!” Without quite realizing what she was doing, she pulled the knife from his back, staring numbly at the dark blood on the blade. Hearing a sound, she looked up, knife in hand.
A boy of fifteen or sixteen stood in the open doorway staring wide-eyed at her. “You killed him!” he blurted, then turned and ran down the stairs.
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CHAPTER 13
In a daze, Monique laid the knife on the table. She glanced at Philippe and then away. Feeling as though she couldn't breathe, she stumbled to her bed, sat down and lowered her head into her hands, unable to comprehend that Philippe was dead.
She'd known him for a little over a year, but it seemed as if it had been forever. She'd shared his triumphs and defeats, comforted him when he'd despaired, laughed with him when he'd been elated. She'd learned so much from him. Now he was dead. She told herself she wouldn't have left him. How could she when he was her dearest friend?
Gradually she became aware of the voices drifting up from the street through her open window. At first she ignored them, but when they grew louder she rose from the bed, crossed to the window and looked out at the crowd gathering on the street in front the boarding house. She stared, puzzled, until she realized the youth who seemed to be the center of attention was the one who'd seen her standing by Philippe's body with the bloody knife in her hand. Telling his tale, no doubt. What did it matter?
She turned away from the window. What did anything matter? About to sit on her bed again, she held, hearing footsteps thudding on the stairs. Moments later a man strode through the open door. She gaped in disbelief.
"Jeremy!"
He crossed to the table and touched one of Philippe's hands, sighed and turned to her. “It's true he's dead. I couldn't believe it."
"I can't cry,” she told him. “I want to, but I can't."
He took her in his arms, and she rested her head on his chest. Her thoughts still chaotic, one thing shone clearly through. Jeremy had come to her in her hour of need.
"I was in Gold Hill when I heard about the poker game,” he said. “I came as soon as I could. They told me outside that Philippe was dead. Tell me what happened."
She pulled back a little to look up at him. “To Philippe? I don't know. I found him like this. A man named Alex Campbell tried to assault me last night."
"I know the bastard. Did Philippe try to interfere?"
"No, he wasn't around. Campbell made me go with him to Chinatown. I threw a lamp at him and started a fire. Then I escaped. That was last night. When I got back here this morning, Philippe was ... was...” Unable to bring herself to say dead, she ended with, “Like this."
Jeremy let her go and strode to the table. Gathering Philippe's body in his arms, he crossed to the bed. “Pull down the blanket,” he told her. After she did, he laid Philippe down with his head on the pillow.
Monique pulled up the blanket carefully, leaving Philippe's face exposed.
"I should never have let either of you leave San Francisco without me.” Jeremy's voice was husky. “I'm taking you with me now. That crowd's working itself into an ugly mood. There's no telling what they might do."
"To me? But I didn't—"
He grasped her arms and shook her. “Don't argue. Do what I say, damn it. Philippe's dead. Isn't that enough? I don't want you dead, too."
"I'll go with you,” she said when he released her. God knows that's what she wanted to do. Had always wanted, ever since she met Jeremy. To be with him. “Just let me change clothes. This dress doesn't fit."
"Hurry.” Jeremy walked to the door, put his clenched fist on the frame and rested his forehead on it, his back to her.
Avoiding the bed, Monique gathered a shirt and pants from hooks along the far wall and laid them over the back of a chair. Shouts came from the street outside as she pulled Chai's dress over her head and let it drop to the floor. Hearing a sound behind her, she looked over her shoulder to find Jeremy staring at her. Uncertain what she read in his expression, she started to turn toward him.
"Damn it,” he growled. “Get dressed."
Monique hurriedly obeyed, pulled a cap low over her forehead and crossed the room to his side. Jeremy didn't look at her. Following his gaze, she saw he stared at Philippe's body. Then he raised his hand to his forehead in a last salute.
Tears welled in Monique's eyes. She ran across the room and, kneeling beside Philippe, smoothed the silver hair back from his forehead before leaning to kiss him there. “Good night, sweet prince,” she whispered as she gently drew the blanket over his face.
When she returned to Jeremy in the doorway, he nodded to her. In approval, she decided, to acknowledge that they had both loved Philippe. Shutting the door behind them, Jeremy strode along the hall to the rear of the house and led the way down the back stairs. This reminded her of how she and Philippe had stolen away from the Whaley House In San Francisco and fresh tears filled her eyes.
Jeremy opened the back door and paused, scanning right and left, before announcing, “It's safe."
He hurried her along an alley, then crossed a street and followed a path between two buildings, finally stopping at the rear of a livery stable. “Wait here,” he told her.
A few minutes later he returned with two horses. “This one's yours,” he said, nodding toward the pinto mare.
After helping her mount, he swung onto a chestnut gelding, riding him from the alley, with Monique a few feet behind. The street was deserted. Noise from the crowd they'd left two blocks behind was inaudible. The air was fresh, the sun was up and their shadows were long at their sides as they galloped south from Virginia City, their horses’ hooves raising plumes of dust behind them.
As soon as they passed the last shack on the outskirts, Jeremy slowed. They trotted south, the rising sun warming Monique as they rode through Gold Hill. The steady pound of the
hoof beats seemed to repeat over and over, He came for me. He came for me.
Jeremy slowed again, letting the horses pick their way in single file through the narrow canyon between the dark and brooding rocks on either side of Devil's Gate. When the canyon broadened so they could ride side by side again, he said, “You haven't asked where we're going."
Because she was with him, she hadn't given it a thought. Trying to shake off the numb feeling shrouding her ever since she'd found Philippe dead, she told herself she had to regain control of her wits. She wasn't a sheep to follow blindly wherever Jeremy led. She'd trusted him once and look where that had gotten her. Left behind for another woman—who might even be his wife by now.
Despite the panic that thought brought, Monique managed to say, “All right, where are we going?"
"There's an abandoned cabin a few miles south of Gold Hill. I stayed there once when I was looking over some claims in the area. We'll go there."
When she remained silent, he glanced at her. “No comments?"
Unable to stop herself, Monique blurted out, “Where is she?"
Jeremy frowned. “Who?"
"You know perfectly well who I mean. Your fiancée. Or maybe by now she—” She broke off, unable to voice her fear and sorry she'd brought it up at all.
I've given myself away, she admonished herself. I've let him realize I still care for him. Still love him. What's wrong with me?
"Laura's in San Francisco,” he said, not looking at her. “And, no, we're not married."
He hadn't added “yet,” whether than made any difference or not. To her it meant it could still be possible he loved her instead of Laura.
Jeremy suddenly swung his horse from the trail onto a track leading into the barren hills, forcing Monique to rein in. He hadn't given any warning of his change of direction and he was now almost fifty feet ahead. She spurred the mare after him, slowing as she neared him, then rode behind him in silence, her thoughts churning. If she'd been Laura McAllister, she would have seen to it he didn't leave her behind in San Francisco, and she'd have insisted on coming with him. Maybe it wasn't true love on either side.
From the top of a rise, they looked down at a rough cabin near the bottom of a dry wash. Jeremy rode down the slope ahead of her, and they dismounted in front of the cabin. While he tethered their horses, she walked past him and opened the door.
A musty and dim inside greeted her, only a few slants of light coming through rents in pieces of cloth tacked over the three windows. The single room was some fifteen feet wide and ten deep. The floor was hard-packed dirt and the only furnishings were a straw mattress on the floor against the far wall, a dry goods box serving as a table and two kegs used for chairs.
"It's not the International Hotel,” Jeremy said as he came to stand behind her, “but you won't be here long. Tomorrow I'll take you to Carson City, where I'll put you on the stage for California."
Put her on a stage? That meant he wouldn't be going with her. That he'd never meant to, no matter what she'd hoped.
"I'm not returning to California,” she told him. “I'm going back to Virginia City. I'm not afraid. I didn't kill Philippe, so why should I run away?"
"Whoa,” Jeremy said. “Hold your horses. No one's talking about running away. That's not the real problem. The Washoe is. You can't stay here alone. There's nothing for you here."
You're wrong, she thought. There's you. And she felt at home in Virginia City besides. Raw it might be, but something about it appealed to her in a way San Francisco never had.
"I could stay right here in this cabin,” she said, remembering how, when she and Philippe wintered in the Sierra foothills, she had dreamed of keeping house for Jeremy.
"Don't be a fool,” he said brusquely.
Hurt and angry, she scowled at him. He had no business calling her a fool. “I'm going back to Virginia City,” she snapped. “I'll be damned if I'll run away."
"Simmer down. I'll ride into town and find out how the land lies. All right? There's a spring a quarter-mile east of here, but there's no food. I'll bring back a few supplies. Just promise me you won't do anything foolish, like trying to follow me."
"I'll stay here."
"I want your promise."
"Stop treating me like a child!” Her voice rose. “I'm not a child. I might have been when you first met me, but I'm not any longer. Thanks to you."
"Whatever I say seems to offend you. Maybe I should've left you there in the boarding house. Maybe I shouldn't have dropped everything to be with you when I thought you needed my help."
Why must we always quarrel? Monique wondered. To be fair, he had come to her, tried to help her, bringing her to this cabin so she'd be safe. He cared for her in his way, that was clear. But did he love her? Maybe he did, without knowing it.
"I'm sorry, Jeremy,” she said.
For a moment she thought he might put his arms around her, but then he nodded, as though to say she was right to be sorry for doubting him, then left the cabin. She stood in the doorway watching him mount and ride off, planning to wave when he looked back. He never did.
Monique sighed. Crossing to the window, she looked from the desolate rock-strewn ground near the cabin to the sagebrush on the hillside. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in that cabin near Placerville with Philippe.
Hearing a whisper behind her, she turned, half-expecting to see Philippe walk into the room, toss his hat on the table and bow to her. The sound came again and she realized it was the wind blowing through the slits between the cabin's boards. Oh, Philippe, she thought. He'd never know how much she missed him. She'd loved him, loved his exuberance, his quick smile, his optimism and his high-flown language. She'd loved the way he read to her from Shakespeare, the way he tied his cravat in front of the mirror and the upward tilt of his cigarillo as he prepared to venture forth to risk all in a game of chance.
He'd been weak, true, and often morose, but he'd never been mean-spirited. On the other hand, he'd given Rowena away and used her as his stake in a poker game. Yet that couldn't diminish her love for him.
I'll find out who killed him, she vowed. I'll not rest until I know and Philippe is avenged.
She found a makeshift broom made from dried sagebrush tied to a crooked stick and swept cobwebs from the corners and cleaned the wooden sill of the door. Going outside to the rear of the cabin, she found a bucket inside an empty barrel and set off to look for the spring.
She came on it almost at once. After washing her hands and face, she cupped her palms and drank the cold, bitter-tasting water. Filling the bucket, she returned to the cabin and sprinkled water on the floor to lay the dust. There was nothing else she could find to do until Jeremy returned, so she climbed the hill in front of the cabin and stood on the rise looking along the trail. There was no sign of any rider.
She indulged her imagination, pretending she and Jeremy were married and that he had ridden into town while she waited at home for his return. But the realization of how she must look got in the way and her hand went to her short black hair, as she glanced down at her boy's clothes. The shirt was the worst she owned, so old and faded it was hardly fit to be worn. She must be a fright! An unwelcome image of Laura McAllister as she'd seen her at the dock, came to Monique—blonde, well groomed and dressed becomingly in the current style.
Ah, as Philippe would say, but the odds lay in my favor. Why? Because Laura is in San Francisco and Jeremy's here with me.
Back in the cabin, she heard hoof beats and hurried to open the door. She looked up the hill and saw Jeremy riding towards her. He stopped near the cabin, swung off the horse and held out a basket to her. She took it, watching him tether the gelding.
"It's a good thing you stayed here,” he told her as they entered the cabin together.
She set the basket on the makeshift table. “Why?"
"They think you killed Philippe and they're in a surly mood. God knows what they might've done if they could've laid hands on you at t
he boarding house."
Ignoring the quiver of fear along her spine, Monique began to remove the food from the basket. “I'm not afraid of them,” she said, taking out a wedge of cheese.
"I've got a question that's sure to upset you,” he said, “but I have to ask it. Promise me you won't fly off the handle."
"How can I promise that when I don't know what the question is? Ask it."
"Did you kill Philippe?"
She gasped in outrage.
Jeremy held up his hand to forestall her words. “He gambled you away in a poker game. That'd be reason enough to kill him."
"How could you think such a thing?” she demanded. “How could you ever believe I'd kill Philippe?"
"I didn't say I thought you did, I merely asked the question."
"Asking it meant you weren't sure. Asking it meant you—"
"You still haven't answered the question, you know."
She flung the wedge of cheese she still held at him. He ducked. The cheese hit the cabin wall and dropped to the floor. “That's my answer,” she snapped.
"Philippe claimed the gentility he taught you would take San Francisco by storm. You must have been a poor pupil—you're no different than you ever were."
She glared at him. “You seemed to approve of the way I behaved on the Columbia. You didn't mind my unladylike behavior when it suited your purposes, did you?"
His face reddened. “I never should've listened to him, never should've believed him."
She was confused. “Do you mean Philippe?"
"Damn it, yes. He was my best friend, but he was a liar, and I knew it. Yet I let him lead me into his little trap like a lamb to the slaughter."
She shook her head. “I don't understand what you're talking about."
"It's best you don't. Look, Mary, forget what I asked. I don't want to quarrel."
"My name's not Mary. It's Monique."
"Monique then, damn it.” He took a step toward her. “What the hell does it matter what you call yourself? You're the same hellion you always were."