by Jane Toombs
Her arms and shoulders ached. Was he matching his will against hers? How long did he mean to wait? The boat pitched and tossed. Did he mean to drown them both?
"All right,” she gasped, defeated. “You row."
He eased his way past her and grasped the oars. Propelled by his long, deep strokes and by the pushing wind, the boat leaped forward. Rain drove down on them; she could no longer see the near shore. The waves rose, sending water over the stern.
"Bail!” George shouted. She could hardly see him through the blur of the rain.
Feeling along the flooded bottom of the boat, she found a bait can and used it to scoop water over the side as fast as she could. Still the cold water rose over the tops of her shoes and up her legs.
Lightning flashed, the jagged bolt followed at once by a deafening clap of thunder. She bailed desperately, her hair loose and plastered to her face, her dress soaked, water squishing in her shoes. The small skiff rose on a wave, tilted crazily on one side and she held tightly to the seat with one hand to keep from being thrown into the roiling waters of the lake.
"We've run aground,” George shouted above the howl of the wind. He grabbed her hand and led her over the boat's tilted bow onto dark, slippery rocks. “We'll have to jump,” he warned.
Hand in hand, they leaped from the rocks into the water. Her feet touched bottom and they splashed through water up to her knees to the shore. At the top of the beach, Monique stopped and looked back. “The boat,” she cried.
"Damn the boat."
He pulled her with him under a canopy of trees where the rain slackened enough she was able to see the dark trunks of pines around her. He led her on to where a giant pine had fallen. In the depression beneath it, they took shelter.
"I'll get wood for a fire,” he told her.
She wondered how he'd be able to start one, though it was true the pine needles scattered around her seemed dry. She rose to follow him, calling, “I'll help you."
He stopped, turned and put both hands on her shoulders. Uncertain what he meant to do, she was unprepared when his arms closed around her and his mouth came down hard on hers. Excitement stirred in her.
He picked her up and, still kissing her, carried her back to the shelter of the fallen pine where he set her down on the needles. Thunder boomed, fainter now. The storm was passing. After bending to kiss her once more, he started to draw away, saying, “I have to make a fire."
"Damn the fire,” she said, pulling him down beside her.
He smiled and took her in his arms. Gently, tenderly, he caressed her, his lips brushing across her cheeks and her eyelids. He undressed her slowly, like a man not accustomed to taking off a woman's clothes, which she found endearing. When he finished, he stared at her bared body almost reverently before his lips sought and found her breasts, while his hands gently explored her.
When he entered her, she moaned and, as he continued his caresses, desire flared in her and she arched to meet him. At that moment, without warning and unwillingly, she thought of Jeremy. She managed to bury the thought in time to take full pleasure from the joining with George.
When they lay side by side, barely hearing the thunder as the storm fled over the distant mountains to the south, listening to the water drip from the trees around them, she smiled ruefully, remembering the day she'd warned Jeremy that he'd hold Laura and think of her...
* * * *
George Guildford accompanied Monique and Chai to San Francisco. As a result, Monique found doors opening for her, doors she never knew existed. When she introduced George to Ward Chambers, she found even Ward treating her with new respect. George then discussed with Ward the best way to arrange for the purchase of Dillie. He found a reliable man named Buck Thornton willing to travel to Alabama, despite the hazards of the war, and escort Dillie back to San Francisco—the man to be paid half his portion of the money now and the other half when he returned with Dillie.
When Monique returned to Virginia City three weeks later, she opened the Manigault Emporium on B Street, a store specializing in “fine clothing for men and women.” She did not make it known she was the proprietor.
On the return trip to Virginia City, George had asked if she would act as his hostess once he rented a suitable house. Her first impulse was to refuse, but he'd been so kind to her and she was fond of him. Wouldn't it be churlish of her to say no?
George rented a large house on the southern outskirts of the city. Monique and Chai—the Chinese girl had been redeemed from the merchant Han Ku for three hundred dollars in gold—moved in with him, Monique as his hostess, Chai as her maid.
The house, Monique discovered, was only a block from the new Johnston mansion. Jeremy, his mining knowledge backed by McAllister money, had prospered. She wondered if his new wealth had brought him happiness and tried to tell herself she hoped so. But, of course, half the time she hoped just the opposite.
Several weeks after her return to Virginia City, Monique put on her new pale-yellow taffeta gown to visit The Flame and go over the business with Astrid. Actually, Gabrielle, who looked as flighty as a bird, had proved to have a much better head for figures than Astrid, so, though Astrid had been running the parlor house in fine fashion, Gabrielle had been handling the books.
Business had increased while Monique had been away and she'd added two new girls, Bertha and Rosie, on her return. She'd also decided to let Astrid run The Flame on her own, using Gabrielle as the bookkeeper.
The board sidewalks didn't extend past the center of town, so she walked along a dirt sidewalk toward C Street and noticed Laura Johnston walking toward her. For a moment Monique hesitated, then continued on, head high. She hadn't seen or heard from Laura since the churchwomen, carrying candles, had paraded to The Flame.
The consensus of the miners was that the candlelight vigil had been a standoff. Whatever the truth of the matter was, Laura's campaign against Monique seemed to be in abeyance.
Kneeling together in the street may have formed a bond of sorts between them, Monique decided, and made up her mind to be polite when they passed. After all, they were both women. While she couldn't imagine them ever being friends, perhaps they could be friendly enemies.
With this in mind, she smiled as Laura drew nearer, though the other woman's head drooped and she obviously hadn't yet caught sight of Monique. How pale she looked, with circles under her eyes as though she hadn't slept. Was something troubling Laura? Instead of gloating over the fact that possibly Laura and Jeremy weren't getting along, Monique felt a pang of sympathy when she realized the woman might be ill.
Laura looked up, saw Monique and stopped. Monique opened her mouth to greet her formally, only to watch Laura turn from her, cross the street and continue walking on the other side.
Color flooded Monique's face at the direct cut. Fuming, she stalked on toward C Street, her fury gradually fading as a plan took shape in her mind. She'd teach that woman a lesson she'd never forget and, at the same time, banish Jeremy from her life once and for all.
By the time she climbed the steps of The Flame, she was smiling.
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CHAPTER 21
"We'll need to lay a fire soon.” George stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking into the empty parlor grate.
"I expect we will,” Monique said.
He crossed the room and stared up at the row of books on the top shelf of the étagère. He clicked his fingernail over the leather spines.
"Have you decided what to name your cat?” he asked.
"I'm going to call her Guinevere, after King Arthur's queen."
"She was unfaithful, you know."
Monique shrugged. “Cats can be, too. They'll only stay with you as long as you feed them, give them a place to sleep, pay some attention to them and, in general treat them well."
He glanced at her, seemed about to speak, but instead walked to the window, where he peered out into the dark night. By the light of the lamp, Monique could see his somber fa
ce reflected in the pane. Something was troubling him, so why didn't he speak of it? She sighed, then leaned over and scratched the carpet with her fingers, attracting the cat's attention. When the cat dashed over, ready to play, Monique lifted her into her lap and began to pet her.
"Guinevere,” she said softly, “do you like your name?"
George turned from the window. “Are you talking to me?"
"No, to the cat. You're so ill-at-ease tonight. Is something wrong?"
He smoothed his hair back with his hand. Leaving the window, he came to sit on the edge of an overstuffed chair, drumming his fingers on the small table next to him.
"I'm worried about you,” he said finally. “You and this Van Allen Reid business. I believe I have good reason to worry. You know how deeply I care for you, Monique, how much I love you. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I'm not afraid of Van Allen, and there's no reason to be worried. Why should he bother with me? In any case, I'm capable of taking care of myself."
"Do you realize, my dear, that you've never said that to me?"
"Said what? The way you leap from one thing to another, I can't follow you."
"That you love me. You've never said that you love me."
Monique looked down at the purring cat in her lap, needing time to find the right words. “You know how much I care for you, George,” she said at last. “Sometimes words aren't needed.” Placing the cat on the floor, she rose and went to sit on the arm of his chair. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
"I wish I thought I could convince Campbell to come back here from San Francisco to tell what he knows about Reid. However, I doubt any amount of money would tempt him. Campbell knows first hand how ruthless his former boss is."
She sighed. “Even if he would come, it'd only be his word against Van Allen's."
"You admit Reid is ruthless, yet you persist in telling all and sundry he was responsible for having your friend Philippe Manigault murdered. How long do you think Reid's going to permit that? I don't want you hurt."
"Oh, George.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “It's so wonderful to have someone who cares.” A moment later she rose abruptly and paced to the hearth and back. “Van Allen did have Philippe killed, and they know it. All the men. They're cowards every one. Joe Goodman and Lester Harrington refuse to print the truth in the newspaper and the miners won't take any action. They don't even want to listen to me any more."
"Men won't listen to what they don't want to hear for one reason or another. The opposite's also true—they believe what they want to believe. Women are the same. Are you sure you didn't accept Campbell's word because you wanted Reid to be guilty?"
"That's ridiculous. Why would I want a man that I—” She paused. “A man I was quite well acquainted with to be the one who killed my best friend?"
"We seem to have changed roles,” George said. “A few minutes ago you were accusing me of being ill-at-ease."
"I'm not ill-at-ease, I'm angry. Men are such cowards. Oh, they're brave enough if they have a knife or a gun. They're courageous when they order women around, treating them as though they were property, making virtual slaves of them. Like Dillie, at Randolphs, having to put up with the unwanted attentions of the twins. Or like Chai, owned by a cruel master. Fair-weather heroes, all of them."
"I refuse to be included in your condemnation,” he said good-naturedly. Rising from the chair, he pulled her to him, her back against him, and buried his face in her hair.
There came a sharp rap at the front door.
Monique stiffened, realizing George was right—she was on edge. “Who can that be?” she said.
"It's probably a telegram I've been expecting about the contract for the pipes in San Francisco."
"At this hour? It's almost ten o'clock."
"There's a time-honored method for finding out.” He released her, walked to the door and opened it.
A boy stood on the porch. “Sir George Guildford?” At George's nod, he handed him an envelope. George flipped him a coin and the boy ran off into the darkness.
Back in the house, the door closed, George said, “See? It is a telegram."
"When men are right, they boast of it. When they're wrong, they say nothing at all."
"All humankind is prone to that failing,” he told her, tearing open the envelope. He held the paper inside under the lamp to read.
She watched his expression change, saw the shock on his face. “What is it?” she asked, going to him and laying her hand on his arm. “What's happened?"
"William,” he said, and she saw tears in his eyes. “My brother's dead, along with his wife and little boy. Carriage accident."
"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry.” She tried to put her arms around him, but he held back.
"This means I have to go home, you know. As soon as possible."
"Of course you do."
He cleared his throat. “You do understand what this means? William's son, the future earl, is dead along with his father. The onus now falls on me."
Monique had not thought beyond the fact George would have to leave Virginia City so much sooner than she'd thought. Now it came through to her that this meant he wouldn't be coming back. Ever.
"I loved William.” Tears rolled down George's cheeks and, at last, she was able to hold him to her. “My little nephew, too."
For a time he remained within her embrace, then he pulled away and removed a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket to wipe his face.
"Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “Anything at all?"
He nodded. “Come to England with me. We'll be married in San Francisco and you can sail from there with me as my wife."
"I—I couldn't do that,” she stammered, completely taken aback. He wanted to marry her! A warm rush of happiness and wonder rushed through her. An earl's wife. Her? Yet how could she possibly say yes? “It wouldn't be fair to you,” she added.
"I meant to ask you before I had to leave Virginia City,” he said, ignoring her words. “This only hastens my speaking out. I love you, Monique, and I want you to me by wife."
"They'd never accept me in England. I'd be a burden to you."
"Let me be the judge of that. Don't you think I know what's best for me? I want you to be with me always, Monique. I can't bear the thought of leaving here without you. It's more than wanting you. I need you. You're real. I've always considered myself something of a sham, a mountebank. You couldn't be that if you tried. Don't you realize how much I love you? Haven't I told you often enough?"
"I know you believe you love me,” she said slowly, “but England's a long way off, with a very different society than here in Virginia City. Once we were there you'd see that I didn't fit in. Sailing to England wouldn't make me go through a sea-change."
"In England you could have all you ever dreamed of—a fine house, carriages, silks and satins to wear and servants to wait on you."
"You tempt me."
"The last time you told me that, at Lake Tahoe, you let yourself be tempted and you haven't regretted it. Just as you'd never regret becoming my wife."
She blinked back tears. “I can't, George. I can't marry you. Besides not being fair to you, it wouldn't be fair to me. I care for you so much and yet...” She broke off, having to clear the hoarseness of tears from her throat before she could go on. “You said I never told you I loved you. Don't you see, I couldn't tell you, can't tell you because I'm not sure I do. I can't marry you when I'm not sure."
"If you don't love me now as much as I might hope, you'll learn to in time. Love will come. Don't shake your head. Think about it, that's all I ask. I won't be able to leave for a few days, the day after tomorrow at the earliest. Think about it until then before you make up your mind. Promise me you'll think about it."
"All right,” she said, “I'll think about it until the day after tomorrow. Then you'll have my answer."
* * * *
The next evening, Monique had herself driven to The F
lame. When Astrid met her at the door, the two women embraced.
"Honey,” Astrid said, “that dress of yours will sure as hell knock their eyes out."
"Wish me luck,” Monique said.
"I do. I don't know what you got in mind, but whatever it is, I know it'll come up aces."
Monique's smile faded as Astrid left to greet an arriving guest. She'd planned so carefully and now she had doubts. It wasn't too late to cancel the whole thing. It was like one of Philippe's beliefs in a sure thing—which didn't necessarily always come out the way he'd figured.
She took a deep breath, remembering the slight Laura Johnston had given her. Would always give her. Setting her jaw, she took a sealed envelope from her bag and went in search of Jess. She found him sitting in a tilted-back chair on the rear porch.
"We talked about this before, Jess. Are you sure you remember what I want you to do?"
"I remembers just fine. Don't mean I likes the sound of it. You gonna stir up a hornet's nest, that's what."
Because he was echoing her own doubts, she spoke harshly. “I don't want to hear what you think. Just get the buggy and be ready."
He brought his chair to the porch floor with a thump. Rising slowly to his feet, he took the envelope and held it to his chest. “Yes'm, ole Jess hears. Ole Jess gonna do just what you tells him. Ole Jess knows his place.” He crossed the porch with an exaggerated shuffle, completing his parody of a slave faced with an unreasonable master.
She scowled, watching him. He'd carry out his part, she knew that, but she was sorry she'd offended him.
As soon as she reached her bedroom on the second floor, she lit the sandalwood incense in the bowl on the mantel, inhaling the rich, faintly spicy odor. The single lamp on the table on the table glowed steadily, throwing soft shadows on the walls of the room. The covers on the wide bed were turned down invitingly.