The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  Hearing the clip-clop of a horse, she looked down at the street from a window. Jess halted the buggy in front of the feed store across the way. When he glanced up at the window, she raised her hand. Though she was sure he saw her, he made no sign.

  Monique crossed to the looking glass on the far side of the room. Removing the combs and pins from her hair, she let it fall to her shoulders. Her dress, a pale blue, was the color of a summer sky at midday. Its high-necked bodice of thin silk outlined her breasts and emphasized her narrow waist. The skirt flared over her multiple petticoats in a cascade of rippling color.

  She was ready.

  Going to the chair nearest the window, she sat, staring into the darkness, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. If George knew what she was up to at this moment he surely would look at her in revulsion. It was none of his business, she told herself. It was only hers. The fiddler in the parlor below struck up a Viennese waltz. Even the music was perfect.

  She'd forgotten something, though. Hurrying to the dressing table, she touched her wrists with French cologne and dabbed some behind her ears. The scent reminded her of the flowers that had bloomed behind her mother's house in the summer days of her childhood. How far she'd come since then. But where was she headed?

  Someone tapped on the door.

  She crossed the room and stood waiting until the knock was repeated before raising the latch and opening the door. Jeremy, dressed in black, looked down at her. The lamplight whitened the scar on his left cheek and glinted in his brown eyes. For a moment Monique remembered the Randolphs’ ball, the first time she'd ever seen him. Knowing she would probably never see him again after tonight, she felt a pang of regret, the bleak emptiness of loss.

  "You asked me to come,” he said. “What is this matter of life and death."

  When she stepped aside, he walked past her to the center of the bedroom, where he stood looking around while she closed the door. He seemed preoccupied, she thought, and older. There were lines on his face she hadn't seen before, and she thought she detected a tinge of gray in his brown hair. Not handsome, but there'd always been something about him...

  She shut down her musing, clenched her hands and steeled herself for what she had to do. “It's about Philippe."

  He frowned and folded his arms. “I've heard you've been going around claiming Alex Campbell told you under pain of death that Van Allen Reid paid to have Philippe killed."

  "It's true!"

  "Hearsay,” he countered.

  "Alex Campbell told me that to save his life. My mind, my heart tells me it's the truth."

  "Reid's no fool. Why would he have had Philippe killed?"

  "Because Philippe suspected Van Allen was behind a scam where prospectors were being cheated out of their finds. I don't know the whole story, just that much."

  Jeremy shifted uneasily. “There have been rumors,” he said, “but I don't see that Reid would think Philippe was any danger to him."

  "When Campbell confessed, George Guildford was with me so you needn't think I've made this up from whole cloth.” She told him.

  "Guildford? Your English lover?"

  She scowled at him. “What right have you to say that? You, of all people."

  "Do you actually expect him to marry you?” he asked. “That's what you've wanted all along, isn't it? To land the biggest fish in the pond. Let me tell you something, my dear. Sir George will never ask you to marry him. Never."

  "Let me tell you something, my dear. He already has."

  The surprise on his face made her smile with satisfaction. He finally recovered enough to say, “Am I to be an invited guest at the wedding?"

  "I haven't given George an answer yet. I haven't said yes or no."

  His eyebrows raised. “What are you waiting for? Hasn't he offered you all you want?"

  He had the nerve to ask her that? Tears filled her eyes. “You—you—” she sobbed. “You bastard!"

  "Now we're seeing the real Monique Vaudreuil. The bitch lurking behind the false front. The vixen parading in the fine clothes of a lady."

  She lowered her face into her hands. “He offered me more than I ever dreamed of,” she whispered. “I didn't accept George because I don't love him."

  As the words came out, she realized they were true. She didn't love George. She had never loved him. Not in the way she needed to love a man. Raising her head, the tears drying on her cheeks, she said, “I asked you here to talk about Philippe, not about me. Philippe was your best friend. He was murdered. You promised you'd avenge him. Remember? Reid had him killed, and you know it. What do you intend to do about it?"

  "What do you expect me to do? Grab my rifle and go gunning for Van Allen Reid. Is that what you want?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't be a fool.” He started to reach out to her, then let his hand fall to his side. “Be careful. You're making enemies in Virginia City. I'm warning you because I care for you. Because of what we once were to each other. Tread lightly."

  Her chin came up. “I'll say what I please, when I please, to whomever I please."

  "Then you are a fool."

  She glared at him. “And you're a coward."

  He turned on his heel, heading for the door.

  Why must they always quarrel? “Jeremy,” she whispered.

  He opened the door.

  Monique closed her eyes, her fists clenching. “Jeremy,” she half-sobbed. “Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy."

  She heard the door close. Didn't he know she couldn't ever love George or any other man the way she loved him? Didn't he understand she'd love him forever? Without reason. But love didn't need a reason.

  "Jeremy,” she said brokenly.

  Arms closed around her. Her eyes flew open and she stared into Jeremy's face. His lips captured hers as he drew her to him. Her arms went around his neck and she surrendered herself to his kiss.

  "Oh God,” he muttered against her lips. She couldn't tell if it was a prayer, a curse or a plea.

  The kiss deepened, passion gripping them both so they swayed on their feet. He eased away from her to say hoarsely, “Get those clothes off."

  Before she obeyed, she turned down the wick of the lamp and blew out the flame so the only light in the room came from the one window where she'd left the shade up. Jeremy stood by the bed and she heard the rustle of his clothing as he undressed.

  "The window,” she told him.

  He crossed the room and she saw his body outlined against the light coming through the window. His chest was bare, though he still wore his pants. A moment later he drew the shade and she heard the buggy rattle up C Street. She smiled in the darkness.

  Going to her dressing table, she slowly began to unbutton the front of her bodice. She heard Jeremy take off his boots and the rest of his clothes, then heard the creak of the bed.

  "Hurry,” he said.

  She pulled the dress over her head and laid it carefully across a chair. She unfastened and removed her petticoats and drawers before stepping out of her slippers. Taking off her garters, she unrolled her stockings down over her legs. Naked, she padded silently to the bed, where she stood and listened to his breathing coming from the darkness in front of her.

  His hand touched her side, and she drew back as though she'd been burned. “The door,” she said. “It's not locked."

  She hurried to the door and rattled the bolt, but left the door unfastened. Returning to the bed, she leaned over Jeremy and ran her fingers through his chest hair. He pulled her onto him and over to face him, holding her close as he kissed her. The feel of his naked body against hers made her heart pound, made her breathless. It had been so long since they'd come together like this.

  "God, how I've missed you,” he murmured as his hand came up to caress her breast.

  She tried not to drift into mindless passion as his caressing fingers touched secret places, but did anyway, pressing against him, yearning for the jubilee only Jeremy could bring her. The rattle of a buggy brought her back to her plan. She
drew away.

  "What is it?” he asked.

  "I thought I heard something. Outside."

  "What does it matter?"

  Had the buggy been the one Jess was driving? She had to know. Reluctantly, not wanting to leave him, she slipped from the bed, ran to the window, lifted the side of the shade and peeked through. Yes, Jess had stopped in front, and she could glimpse someone in the seat beside him.

  Laura. Monique started to smile, but it died aborning. Her plan was working—Laura would find them together and be wounded, Jeremy would be shamed and Monique would be free of him forever. He'd certainly hate her once he realized she'd laid this trap.

  Why then did she suddenly feel so miserable?

  Was it because Laura was a woman, just as she was? Monique remembered saying women should help one another. She still believed they should. How could she do this terrible thing to Laura then? Just because the woman had snubbed her didn't mean she should wound Laura to the heart. Laura's snub had been unkind, but her retaliation would be evil. A sin.

  "What's the matter?” Jeremy called to her.

  "I can't do it,” she whispered. And she couldn't. Not to him, not to Laura and not to herself.

  Running back to the bed, she said urgently, “Get up. Get dressed. She's in that buggy outside."

  "Who?"

  "Laura. I sent Jess for Laura and she's here. Hurry, you've got to leave."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER 22

  Monique lit the lamp as Jeremy swung from the bed and yanked on his pants. He reached for his boots.

  "You don't have time,” Monique warned. “She'll be here any minute. Take the rest of your clothes and go left down the corridor to the back door."

  He muttered a curse as he grabbed his shirt and coat. “I should've known I couldn't trust you. I was a damn fool for not remembering what you're like."

  She bit back a reply, peering cautiously out the door. “No one's in sight,” she told him. “Hurry."

  Carrying his boots and clothes, Jeremy stepped into the corridor. “What will you tell her?"

  "That I lied to bring you here. When you found me out, you left. It's the truth, isn't it?"

  "For God's sake, put some clothes on.” He turned and strode along the corridor.

  He might at least have been grateful, she told herself as she closed the door. After all, I did send him on his way before Laura arrived. Still, a word of thanks probably would have been too much to expect, considering the circumstances,

  Monique dressed hurriedly, but she was just fastening her petticoats when Jess’ three taps sounded on the door. Loud taps. That wasn't part of the plan—he was supposed to have sent Laura up here alone to the unlocked bedroom door.

  "I'll be there in a minute,” she said as she pulled her blue dress over her head and started buttoning the bodice.

  "Miss Monique, open the door.” Jess’ voice sounded strained.

  Barefooted, she did as he asked. “Why are you—” she began, only to stop abruptly when she saw he was carrying Laura Johnston in his arms.

  Jess reduced his booming voice to a whisper of sound. “Him?"

  Monique gestured down the hall to indicate Jeremy was gone.

  "Good.” Jess strode past her to the bed and gently laid Laura down. Monique pulled the covers up over her, staring down at the other woman's pale face, the shadows around her closed eyes. Remembering how her mother had died, Monique noted with alarm the trace of blood in the corner of Laura's mouth.

  She leaned over and placed her hand on Laura's forehead. At her touch, Laura's eyes opened. “I'm sorry.” Her voice was a mere thread of sound.

  "Jess, what happened?” Monique asked.

  "She done took sick in the buggy. I gonna take her to Doc Jamison, and she says she don't wanna go there, don't wanna go back home neither, just wants to come here. So here we be."

  "Fetch the doctor,” Monique told him.

  "No!” Laura's thin hand grasped her wrist. “There's no need. I'm better.” No sooner had she finished talking than dry coughs racked her body. She raised a bloodstained handkerchief to her lips.

  Monique led Jess to the door. “Fetch the doctor,” she said softly. “Tell him to come here at once."

  Jess nodded. Closing the door behind him, Monique crossed to the commode, poured a glass of water from the pitcher and returned with it to the bed. Laura, now sitting up, was gasping for breath, but no longer coughing. Monique held the glass to her lips and, as Laura drank, her gasping eased.

  Laura looked around the room. “Where's Jeremy? His note said he needed me."

  Monique sighed. Confessing her folly wasn't easy. “I sent the note, not Jeremy. I asked him to come here, but when he saw what I had in mind, he walked out. He's probably home by now."

  "Are you saying you lured him here?” Laura's face drooped. “Do you hate me so much?"

  Without answering, Monique brought a chair to the bedside, bunched the pillows to prop Laura up and then sat down beside the bed. Again she touched the sick woman's forehead. “You're burning up. You should've let Jess take you back home."

  "The fever comes and goes. I wanted to come here, to see you, because of the other day.” She paused to catch her breath. “The day I crossed the street so I wouldn't have to speak to you rested heavily on my mind. You had every right to be furious, but the truth is I was embarrassed and didn't know what to say. You realize I'm a bit afraid of you."

  "Afraid? Of me? Why?"

  "Of what you might do. I'm not blind, you know. Do you imagine I'm so caught up in myself that I don't know what's going on around me?"

  Not knowing how to reply to this, Monique said, “I sent Jess for the doctor."

  Laura half-smiled. “There was no need. He'll say, ‘Take cough syrup and cod-liver oil.’ Then he'll suggest a change of climate."

  Remembering what George had told her about the surveyor who now worked for him, Monique said, “I've heard the Lake Tahoe area might be beneficial for your condition."

  Laura shook her head. “Not now."

  "We have a Chinese girl here who uses herbs for medicine. Sometimes they work wonders. I can—"

  "No. There's nothing you can do. Except answer my question. Do you really think I don't know the truth?"

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

  "Jeremy, of course."

  I can't possibly discuss Jeremy with this woman. Leaving the bedside, she walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. “The doctor should be here soon,” she said without turning.

  "Perhaps I was wrong,” Laura said. “You seem more afraid of me than I do of you."

  Monique swung around. “I don't fear you. The truth is I envy you."

  "You envy me?” Laura smiled ruefully. “I wanted to be a school teacher, but my father wouldn't hear of it. He insisted there was no reason for me to work, that I had a good dowry, would marry well and never want for money. He didn't understand at all, so I tried to make him see. Then he put his foot down, saying after I was married I'd have children of my own to teach and he didn't want to hear any more nonsense about school teaching. That was the end of it. Actually, I envy you."

  Monique walked slowly back to the chair by the bedside and sat down. “I can't think of a single reason why you should envy me."

  "You seem to do whatever you want. You don't seem afraid of what people might think. Not that I approve of what you do. Of this.” Laura glanced around the dimly lit room.

  "I've always envied you,” Monique admitted. “You have so much—a mansion in San Francisco, all the money you need, fine clothes, servants to wait on you...” She broke off, realizing George had offered her all that. What he couldn't offer her, and what Laura already had, was Jeremy.

  "Perhaps we should trade places."

  "You wouldn't like my life."

  "Nor you mine, I suspect. You'd soon grow bored.” Again Laura looked about the room.

  What had seemed so grand to Monique when she'd
furnished The Flame suddenly appeared tawdry—the dark red drapery, the bowl of smoldering incense on the mantel, even the four-poster bed. It was tawdry because it sought to create European elegance in the Nevada desert, tried to be what it never could be.

  "When Jeremy returned to San Francisco from the east,” Laura said, “he seemed different, somehow, not the man who'd courted me the year before. I offered to release him from his promise to marry me. Not because I didn't love him, but because I'd begun to wonder if he truly loved me. He refused to be released, claiming nothing had changed. And so we married. I tried my best to make him happy—it became my whole life, making him happy was all I cared about."

  "I wouldn't—couldn't—do that for any man,” Monique said.

  "That's why I envy you. You'd marry a man on your terms or not at all."

  "If you once let a man see you're weak, he'll take advantage of you. It's their way."

  "I did what I had to do,” Laura said. “That's the kind of person I am. No one can change overnight."

  "Maybe not overnight, but anyone can change. I have. I believed men's lies once, their sweet talk, their promises. I don't anymore. Sometimes I wish I could, but I can't."

  "I don't have time to change, even if it were possible.” Laura reached to Monique. “Take my hand.” When Monique did, she found it damp and clammy.

  "I'm going to die,” Laura said.

  "Hush. Don't talk nonsense,” Monique said automatically, aware Laura spoke the truth.

  "I don't intend to die in Virginia City, though,” Laura went on. “I've never liked the Nevada Territory. I feel it's hostile and I refuse to die here. Jeremy's taking me back to San Francisco at the end of the week. I want to be where I grew up, in my father's home. Is that so wrong?"

  A surge of pity engulfed Monique. She'd watched her mother die of consumption and she knew how relentless the disease was. Few survived. From her symptoms, Laura almost certainly was consumptive and would die soon. Almost immediately the thought popped into Monique's head that when she did, then Jeremy would be free. Annoyed with herself, she shunted it away and tried to answer Laura.

  "No, it's not wrong to want to go back home,” she told her, wondering as she did where, if Monique Vaudreuil wanted to go back home, would she go? There was no home for her, no place to return to.