The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  Monique drew in her breath in awe as she stared at the deep blue water surrounded by pines rising up to snow-covered peaks. White clouds drifted above the mountains. “It’ so beautiful,” she managed to say, aware her words didn't do justice to the scene before her.

  "I've decided Lake Tahoe and its surroundings are nonpareil,” he told her.

  They rode along the eastern shore, the early September air clear and cool. Once they heard a shout in the distance, following by a faint chopping sound of an ax, but they saw no one. Jays scolded them from nearby trees, squirrels leaped from limb to limb, chattering, and once they spied an antlered deer watching them from the crest of a hill.

  "Smoke,” Chai said, pointing.

  Sure enough, a column of smoke drifted upward above the trees ahead of them. Almost immediately they rode into a clearing where a log cabin had been build on the shore of the lake. A skiff lay beached on the sand nearby and a horse was tethered to a hitching post near a crude stables. A bearded man with long, matted hair appeared in the doorway.

  "Captain,” he said to George, raising his hand to his hat, “I been expecting you since last night."

  "We were delayed and had to stay overnight at Demming's. Is everything tip-top?"

  The man nodded before holding the horse for first Monique to dismount, then Chai. “I'll just be skedaddling along,” he told George, untying his own horse.

  While George saw to their horses, Chai and Monique entered the cabin. Chai immediately busied herself with pots and pans in the kitchen area, shaking her head when Monique offered to help. “Me do."

  Restless, Monique wandered back outside to the lakeshore, where she stood on the sandy beach looking over the water. Wood smoke and pine scent drifted on the slight breeze. After a few moments, George joined her.

  "I have one other present for you,” he said.

  "Nothing could be better than this.” She gestured with both hands, taking in the take, the trees and the mountains.

  "I knew you'd like it. Perhaps you'll like this as well."

  She turned and saw he'd placed a Paiute basket on the ground by her feet. Lifting the reed lid, she was startled when a half-grown gray kitten put its paws on the basket rim and mewed at her.

  "Oh!” She gasped in delight and lifted the cat into her arms, stroking the soft fur and delighting in its purr of approval.

  "How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know what would please me more than anything in the world?"

  "I guessed, nothing more. If I'd been wrong, there was no harm done."

  As she cuddled the cat, she thought of Rowena and remembered Philippe's betrayal when he sold the cat to pay his gambling debts. Then she pictured Philippe as she'd last seen him in death, his head on the table. Tears came to her eyes. She tried to smile, but began to weep instead, crying because the gift of the cat made her so happy; crying because thinking of Philippe dead made her so sad.

  "My dear,” George said. “My dear, have I done something I shouldn't have?"

  "No, no.” She set the cat on the sand and threw her arms around him, sobbing against his chest. “I'm crying for joy."

  When her tears eased, she looked up, and he kissed her. She found herself returning his kiss without thought, her arms holding him to her.

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  CHAPTER 20

  Although the night was cold, they slept fully dressed, wrapped in blankets, on the shore of the lake, Monique nearest the dying campfire, George a few feet away. Chai had chosen a cot in the cabin, as did the cat, curling up on the foot of the cot.

  When Monique woke, she heard the morning calls of birds from the trees by the lake and she smelled wood smoke tinged with the appetizing odor of cooking bacon. She raised her head and saw George crouched by the fire holding a black iron fry pan. Throwing back the blanket, she stretched, at peace with the world.

  After a breakfast of hot fry bread, bacon and coffee, Monique retreated to the cabin to change clothes. Chai was up and in the kitchen making tea.

  "What name Chai call him?” she asked.

  "How about Sir George?” Monique said.

  "Sir?"

  "Sir means he's an important man. A man of quality. A man of wealth. Sir means you respect him."

  "Ah,” Chai said. “Sir George, yes.” She gazed at Monique. “You like?"

  "I like him. More as friend than anything else.” Even as she spoke, Monique wondered if the words were quite true. She was becoming fonder of George all the time.

  "Ah,” Chai said again.

  The gray cat followed Monique outside and to the beach, where George was standing beside the skiff. The cat watched as she climbed into the boat and George launched it. As George rowed away from the shore, Monique waved goodbye to Chai, who'd come to the door of the cabin. The sun, now above the trees, glinted on the water.

  "The air's so fresh,” Monique said, “so clear. I never realized before just how dirty and dusty the air in Virginia City is."

  "Perhaps the air's better here because we're closer to heaven than we were in Virginia City. We're surely closer to heaven than they are in San Francisco. A man named Joe Ryder, who works for me, told me that he came to a cabin on Lake Tahoe two years ago expecting to die of consumption. Today he's in robust health."

  Monique sighed. “My mother died of consumption."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thank you, but it was years ago.” She didn't add that it still hurt to remember. Instead, she changed the subject. “You spoke of a man working for you—here, in the Nevada Territory?"

  "Yes, Joe's my surveyor,” George said. “I'm what's known as a hydraulic engineer, which means having to do with water. I studied the subject in France and now I work wherever I'm needed. Rather exciting to travel, you know. I've been in the Nevada Territory for the last month, and I expect to be here for at least another month before I finish the job."

  She frowned. “But the miners called you Sir George. Were they mocking you?"

  He shrugged. “They were mocking me, but I am the second son of an earl. My elder brother holds the title."

  "Title?"

  He looked embarrassed. “It's inherited, you see, by the eldest son. “I'm not the earl, William is. Calling me ‘sir’ is just an honorary title, nothing more. Second sons are free to indulge themselves in fancies such as such as studying hydraulic engineering, though I believe William is sometimes embarrassed by the fact I actually work at it. Still, he's a good sport."

  "You're the son of an earl,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

  "Second son. It does make a difference. I've always been happy I wasn't the firstborn. The lords of England tend to be a stuffy lot, too inbred and much too haughty. My father wasn't so much that way and neither is William. As for me, I struggle against my tendencies toward indolence."

  Monique took a few minutes to digest this information. Looking at George, she decided it didn't make the least bit of difference. She liked him for what she'd seen of him, just that. His aristocratic parentage didn't mean a thing to her.

  He took a fishing pole from the bottom of the boat, baited the hook and cast the line into the water. Monique watched the worm on the hook drift down through the crystal clear water toward a bottom of gray boulders and sand. A school of large speckled fish swam among the rocks.

  "Look,” she said.

  He nodded. “Lake Tahoe trout. I've heard men from around the Great Lakes call them mackinaws."

  "There must be ten or fifteen fish down there. Why doesn't one of them take the bait?"

  He grinned at her. “That's either because I'm a poor fisherman or because the water's so clear they see the line and take warning. I prefer to think it's the latter."

  "I didn't think fish were that smart,” she teased.

  "Alas, then, it must be me."

  "A hydraulic engineer who can't entice a fish out of the water. It just occurred to ask if you're working for Adolph Sutro?"

  "The man who dreams of a tunnel t
o drain the mines? No, just the opposite. I'm not here to get water out of the mines, but to find a way to bring water to the mines—to Virginia City, that is. I've been asked to determine whether it's possible to pipe drinking water from the Sierras to there."

  Her eyes widened. “All that way?"

  "The pipe would go from the lakes and springs here in the mountains down into the Carson Valley and then up into the eastern mountains to Virginia City. I'm about convinced it can be done, though it'd be an expensive, time-consuming project."

  Monique looked at him with new respect.

  "Ah, a bite,” he said.

  The line tightened and dipped into the water. George let the fish run, the reel whining as it spun. When the line slackened, he reeled in slowly.

  "Damn.” He pulled the line from the water. A small fragment of worm remained on the hook, but the rest of the bait and the fish were gone.

  They drifted and fished, laughing together when Monique landed the first trout. Later in the morning, George beached the boat and they took a walk in the pine forest. She marveled at the easiness between them. When she'd been with Jeremy, they'd always quarreled. With Van Allen Reid, she'd never felt quite comfortable. But she and George could walk in silence or they could talk with no problem at all.

  She noticed George watching her when he thought she was unaware. They hadn't touched, except casually, since last night's kiss. At the moment, they demanded nothing of one another. They were at peace.

  Later in the week, as they were fishing again, she said to him, “I wish we could stay here forever."

  The morning mist rose slowly from the lake as they drifted and the sun's rays slanted through the tall trees. High above, the snow-capped peaks gleamed white and cold.

  "You'd grow bored with all this splendor,” he said. “Even Eve wearied of Eden after a time."

  "Did she really, or was she tempted?” Monique asked. Without waiting for an answer, she sighed. “I probably would tire of it, though I don't like to think so. I'm too restless, I suppose. I always seem to want what I can't have. I know I do, but I don't like to think of myself as being that way.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose I don't make any sense at all."

  "You always make sense to me, Monique. Tell me, how would you like to think of yourself?"

  "I like to think of myself as a lady.” She closed her eyes. “A lady dressed in satins and sables who lives in a great house, a mansion. A lady who's witty and charming, yet who's admired more for her kindness than her social graces. I'd like to be known as someone who never hurts another person.” She opened her eyes and looked off over the water. “When I was a child, I used to picture myself riding through the streets in a carriage down by four white horses. I'd imagine little girls seeing me and saying they'd like to be just like Mary Vere when they grew up."

  "Mary Vere?"

  The name jerked her from her reverie. “It—I used to be called that,” she admitted.

  "It fits you."

  She shook her head. “No, that's behind me. I'm Monique Vaudreuil now.” Looking at him, she added, “I suppose you think I'm childish."

  "I think you're charming."

  "And childish?"

  "How could a man who often pictures himself as a dashing Confederate cavalry officer accuse anyone of being childish? We all have a bit of the child left in us. I often think it's the best part of us, since I like to believe children are born with wisps of heaven still clinging to them."

  She smiled at him. “What a poetic idea. I suppose I should be satisfied with what I am."

  "Never be satisfied. Try to be better than you are."

  She raised an eyebrow. “Do you always try to be better? To do better?"

  "Not nearly often enough. See how I am at the moment, drifting along in a boat? As you can see, I'm much too indolent. It's a disease that affects my class. I have bursts of activity when I imagine I'm about to conquer the world, but then I tell myself it's not worth it a candle, not worth the price, and I shut myself away for a time with my books and my violin."

  "I'm not sure how an earl ranks in the nobility,” she admitted.

  "Middling. A duke and a marquis both rank higher. A viscount and a baron are lower on the scale."

  "You're the first ‘sir’ I've ever known. When I told Chai she could address you as Sir George, I had no idea you were the son of an earl."

  "Are you disappointed? I would be if I were meeting myself for the first time. I've tried to break free of the stuffy mold, but no man can be what he's not. The whole British peerage needs a breath of fresh air. I suspect that's why so many of them are marrying American women these days. How else are we to invigorate the breed?"

  "I don't find you stuffy,” she assured him. “As for Chai, I truly believe she worships you, her Dragon-Heart."

  He shook his head, but said nothing. They drifted for a while in silence. The mist lifted from the lake, a wind came up and small whitecaps flecked the surface of the water. In the distance, smoke angled from among the trees on the far side of the lake.

  Struck by his mention of English lords marrying American women, Monique tried to imagine being married to George Guildford. Sir George Guildford. She pictured stately mansions, ancestral halls hung with somber portraits, vast gardened grounds. He might not be the earl, but surely he lived like one.

  Though she could clearly see in her mind the great houses, the sweeping drives, she found she couldn't imagine herself taking part in the life they represented. “Stuffy” was the word he'd used, and she could never be that.

  Of course she didn't intend to marry George, or anyone else. Not that she believed George would ever ask her, a Virginia City madam.

  "Speaking of Chai,” George said, “she's so quiet I forget at times that she's around. Yet I've noticed she works hard. Also, she seems to have the knack of anticipating what I want before I know it myself."

  "She's very loyal to those she likes."

  "I'm thinking of buying her,” he said.

  "Buying her?” Monique's voice rose. “You can't buy another person here in Nevada. Slavery's illegal."

  "I meant I intend to pay the man who brought her to Virginia City so she'd be free of him once and for all."

  I should have thought of that, Monique told herself. I could have done just that and freed Chai. But then she frowned. No matter how independent she was as a woman, it was quite possible a Chinese man might refuse to deal with a member of her sex.

  "That's a wonderful idea,” she told George. “And very generous of you."

  "Well, you see, I actually need a house servant, so my gesture has advantages for me as well. If she were free, I could invite Chai to work for me, and she could do so or not, as she chose. Would you mind if she worked for me?"

  "Of course not. I can't think of anyone she'd rather work for than you. And I know you'll keep her safe."

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Everything new I find out about you makes me care more."

  She withdrew her hand,

  "Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

  "No, not at all. But I sometimes wish I was a young girl again and that I'd just met you."

  "Balderdash! It's not a young girl I've grown fond of. It's you, Monique, the way you are now."

  "Our time here is almost up,” she said, looking again at the smoke rising above the pines on the far side of the lake. She gestured and said, “Hunters, do you think?"

  "A sawmill,” he told her. “They're cutting timbers to use in the mines."

  "In all the time we've been here at the lake, we haven't seen one other person."

  "Are you lonely?"

  She smiled and shook her head. “At first I thought I might be, but I'm not. You're good company, George."

  He inclined his head. “I'm glad you think so. We have only one more day here. Sutliffe, my caretaker, will be back tomorrow, and the three of us will leave the following morning.” He looked at the sky above the western peaks. “Notice the thickening clouds. More
than likely we'll have rain for our last day."

  On the following morning, the clouds in the east were streaked with red and orange, and whitecaps flecked the surface of the lake, but no rain fell. Shortly after midday, Monique found George standing on the shore frowning up at the sky.

  "Can we take the boat out?” she asked. “For one last time?"

  "Well, I'm not—"

  "Please, George. We don't have to row far from shore. It's not raining now, and maybe it won't."

  He sighed. “Even against my better judgment I can't say no to you. Just for a few minutes, though.” He helped her in and pushed the skiff into the water. Taking the oars, he rowed along the shore.

  "Let me row for the last time,” she begged.

  They traded places. Monique rowed with short, quick strokes, breathing deeply of the fresh air that now carried a chill. The wind slapped water against the sides of the boat. “I've never felt so alive,” she told him.

  "Stay closer to shore,” he advised.

  "Are you afraid?” she teased.

  "I prefer to think of myself as prudent."

  Prudent, she thought. When in her life had she ever been prudent? It wasn't in her not to take risks, to challenge what Philippe used to call “the winds of fate.” But, hearing thunder rumble in the mountains and seeing how the dark clouds massed and expanded, she quelled her impulse to row madly into the lake, daring the storm to do its worst.

  "Let me take the oars,” George urged, “The storm'll be on us in a minute."

  "No, I can manage. See, I'm bringing us around to run for shore in front of the storm."

  He shrugged. “Pull hard."

  "Which way's the cabin?” she asked, once the boat's prow was aimed shoreward.

  "It's too far. Make straight for the shore."

  Lightning streaked from ominous clouds over the western end of the lake and, a few seconds later, thunder boomed. The rising wind splashed water onto her. The first few drops of rain struck her face as the boat rose and fell on the mounting waves. Exultant, while at the same time feeling a tingle of apprehension, she rowed as fast as she could. From time to time she glanced at George, expecting him to ask her to give him the oars, knowing she would let him if he did. But he sat gripping the gunwales, watching her with a steady gaze, making no move to take the oars.