by Jane Toombs
"Do you know what the Reverend MacDonough told me?” Laura asked. “He said I had to guard against being selfish. That sick people often only think of themselves and not of others. At the time I thought it was just another of his antiquated notions. He has a great many of those, but I soon realized he was right. So I stopped worrying about myself so much and started wondering how I could help others. It's difficult not to put yourself first."
"Very difficult."
"Yes, even when you see things as clearly as I've been able to lately. I think when you approach death a certain clarity comes to you. I now feel able to stand apart from everyone, as though each day I'm farther away. I understand people better at a distance than I did close up. Perhaps the best way to explain is to imagine that everyone else is on a stage and I am the audience. You see, I'm no longer an actor in life, but an observer."
Monique thought she could grasp the notion. “But aren't we all actors in life until the final curtain comes down?” she asked.
Laura shook her head. “Not me, not any longer. The strange thing is I can see the mistakes people make or are about to make, but I know if I try to intervene, no one will listen. It's something like a melodrama, where the audience can see the villain plotting and longs to cry out to the hero or the heroine to beware. Even if they do, though, the play goes on without anything changing.” She sighed. “The worst of it is, I'll never know how it all comes out.” Tears stained her cheeks. “Oh, Monique, I'm so afraid."
Monique released her hand, leaned forward and hugged her, holding her close, wishing there was something she could do for her and realizing with sadness there was nothing.
After a moment, Laura drew back. “I'm all right now. At times I forget God will look after me, that I'm going to a better place than this world."
"I wish I had your faith."
"I understand why Jeremy likes you,” Laura said. “I thought at first you must be a bold woman who'd brazenly tempted him. When I organized the churchwomen's march, I told myself it was because you were an agent of the devil, just as the Reverend MacDonough said.” She shook her head. “Even then, though, in the back of my mind, I knew why I singled you out. I was afraid this was where Jeremy spent those evenings when he wasn't home, those evenings when he claimed to be working."
"No,” Monique told her. “He did not. You misjudge him. It's common knowledge around town about the long hours Jeremy works."
"He's driven, I know. Why?” Her eyes questioned Monique.
"Jeremy wants ... he wants...” Monique paused and flung her arms wide. “He wants to be the best."
"You do care for him, don't you?"
Monique looked into Laura's eyes. “I love him. I have from the moment we met. I won't ever love another man in same way.” Tears welled in her eyes, along with the realization there was, after all, something she could do for Laura. “I want you to understand this,” she told the other woman. “He never loved me. I tried to make him love me when we sailed together from Panama City to San Francisco, tried again here in Virginia City. I failed. You're the one he loves.” Managing a smile, she added, “It's the luck of the draw, I guess."
"I don't understand you,” Laura said. “I probably never will. I'd think one man would be enough. I'd think you wouldn't want more, especially one who's married to another woman."
"One man would be enough, if he were the right man. At least that's what I tell myself."
"You'd be wrong for Jeremy,” Laura told her. “I can see that now."
"Because I've known other men?"
Laura shook her head. “No, because he'd ask more of you than you could give him. He wouldn't want a wife who competed with him, one who ran a place like this. Jeremy expects his wife to stay at home, to entertain and to be a reflection of his good taste. Even I had a difficult time at first playing the part he expected me to play."
"I could give up The Flame, possibly converting it to a hotel, but not my other commercial interests. I'll never play a part for any man. Never, no matter how much I love him."
"You'd be wrong for each other. I don't know whether I'm relieved or sad."
"Why should you be sad?” Monique asked.
She heard a knock, called, “Come in,” and Dr. Jamison stepped into the room, gasping for air after his climb up the stairs.
"I never expected to find you here,” he told Laura.
"You're no more surprised than I."
Removing a stethoscope from his black bag, he went to the bed and held the instrument to her chest, then, after telling her to lean forward, to her back. Returning the stethoscope to his bag, he said, “I don't think you've been following my advice."
"I have, but I told you cod-liver oil did no good."
"I'm going to recommend phosphate of lime in milk. And a change of climate."
"My husband and I are leaving for San Francisco in a few days."
"Excellent. Now you must go home and rest."
Seeing Jess standing in the hall just outside the bedroom, Monique motioned to him to come in. “Mrs. Johnston is ready to be taken home,” she said. “Would you please carry her down to the buggy and drive her there?"
"Wait,” Laura told Jess as he advanced toward the bed. She leaned toward Monique and reached out her arms. Again they hugged. “I'm sad because I want Jeremy to be happy,” she whispered in Monique's ear.
"I still envy you,” Monique murmured. “Not because of what you have, but because of what you are. You're the one who's brave, not me."
Laura drew back, smiling. “Thank you.” Looking at Jess, she said, “I'm ready now."
He lifted Laura into his arms and carried her from the room, followed by the doctor. When they were all gone, Monique closed the door, then went to the window and watched Jess place Laura in the buggy and urge the horse away from the front of the house and up C Street.
If I'd known her at another place, in another time, without Jeremy between us, I'd have liked her. And just perhaps, Laura might have liked me.
* * * *
"You're not coming to the depot with me, are you?” George asked Monique the next morning.
"No, I'd rather say goodbye to you here."
"You won't change your mind? You won't sail with me?"
"I won't change my mind. I can't go, George. I'm flattered. I'm honored. But I can't go to England with you. Someday you'll thank me."
"Never.” He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her gently, the kiss of a friend, not a lover. When he stepped back, she saw tears glistening in his eyes.
Noticing a flash of color near the parlor door, Monique turned and saw Chai in her red gown, a shawl over her shoulders.
"You no go?” Chai asked her.
"No, Chai, I'm going to stay here in Virginia City."
"This house is yours for as long as you want it,” George said.
"Thank you, but I won't be staying here."
"Chai go."
Monique stared at the Chinese girl, not understanding.
"She wants to go with me,” George said. “To England."
Monique couldn't conceal her surprise. “To England?"
"Go with Dragon-Heart,” Chai confirmed.
"She talked to me about it early this morning,” George said. “I told her it was up to you."
"Chai is her own person. No one owns her,” Monique reminded him. “She's free to do as she pleases, go where she wants to."
"She understands she'd work as a house servant at Guildford Hall, albeit a somewhat privileged one."
Monique looked at Chai. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?"
"Chai sure."
Monique hugged her. “Then go with my blessings."
Chai bowed and left the room as silently as she'd entered.
"Take care of her,” Monique said to George. “Don't let anything happen to her."
"I wouldn't be surprised if, in the course of time, she ended up taking care of me."
They stood looking at each other in silence. Ev
erything had been said. For an instant Monique had an impulse to change her mind, to tell George they'd marry in San Francisco and she'd sail with him. As quickly as it had come, the notion fled, and she sighed for what might have been.
"I almost said I'd stay here,” George said, “and to hell with the earldom, to hell with the responsibility."
"But you didn't."
"No,” he said, “I didn't.” He walked from her, pausing at the door. “In two months or so I'll be riding on the Sussex meadows."
She smiled through tears. “In a Confederate uniform?"
"I've reluctantly resigned my commission. One can't manage an English estate and be an officer in the Confederate Army at the same time.” He gazed into her eyes for a time. “I'll ask you what you asked Chai. You're certain?"
"Yes,” she said, feeling the sadness within threaten to undo her. How she'd miss George!
He nodded, raised his hand to his forehead in a last salute and left her alone. A few minutes later she heard his steps go down the hall and then the outer door opened and shut. The carriage rattled off in the direction of the stage depot.
As she had so often in the past, she felt her life was a succession of good-byes. Now Chai was gone and George was gone. She'd never see either of them again. Nothing endured. Everything was of the moment. Fleeting. She thought of Laura. As all life is fleeting, she told herself.
* * * *
"For heaven's sake, Astrid, what is it?” Monique asked several weeks later, once again living at The Flame. Ever since she'd moved back, the tall, blonde woman had hovered near her, always seeming about to speak out, yet never saying what troubled her.
"How did you know I had something on my mind?” Astrid asked.
"The way you've been acting, it wasn't hard. Why don't you tell me and have done with it?"
"I don't know if I ought to. I'm afraid no good will come of it."
"Just tell me, Astrid."
"You know Mike Renfell?"
"How could I help it? He's so taken with you that I sometimes think this is his second home."
"Mike used to work for Van Allen Reid until a few months back when they had a falling-out and Mike quit. Well, just a couple weeks ago, Mike told me something you might want to hear. Remember how you told us a long time ago to keep our ears open?"
"About Philippe's murder, yes. I'm almost positive I know who killed him, though."
"I know what you think, ‘cause you let us all in on what happened in the Sierras. But it wasn't Alex Campbell, it was Russ, just like Campbell told you. Mike said so. And he let on as to the reason. At the beginning, when they were starting to find silver here in the Comstock, Reid had a couple of the assayers in his hip pocket. Got them to tell the miners they'd come up dry when really they'd hit it big."
Of course. And Philippe must have suspected just that. “So then Reid went to the same spot and staked a claim himself,” Monique said.
"Most likely he sent Alex Campbell to do the staking."
"Are you sure about this? Can you trust Mike?"
"Yeah. The bastard spilled the beans ‘cause he was leaving for the east. He's long gone, headed back to where he came from. He wanted to get everything off his chest before he left. Lucky I don't pay no attention to sweet talk about wanting to marry me and all. He never had any intention to."
Monique voice her suspicion to Astrid. “Philippe must have uncovered something about the crooked assayers and said something to someone that got back to Reid."
"That's what Mike thought. Makes sense. Ain't nothing can be proven, though."
Monique frowned, aware Astrid was right. Who could she ask for help? George Guildford was gone. Jeremy had taken Laura back to San Francisco. If she reported this story to Lester Harrington at the Enterprise, his response would undoubtedly be the same as when she'd told him about Alex Campbell—a shrug of his shoulders.
The only solution seemed to be a showdown with Van Allen. Face him and make him tell the truth. If he did—no, when he did because she'd make him—she'd avenge Philippe. By God, she would.
Thinking it was easy. She'd hadn't gotten to the point of deciding how to approach Van Allen when the matter was taken out of her hands.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER 23
Two nights later, Monique lay in bed listening to a loose shutter banging in the cold night wind. In the distance a violin played a sad, plaintive melody that made her think of lost chances and of lost loves. Which reminded her of her new worry, one she didn't care to think about just yet, in case time would take care of the problem. Though time should have done that by now. Still, there was always Ah Sing's herbs.
She finally slept, but fitfully, dreaming she searched for her home in the night, while hooded figures rode past carrying torches and kneeling women wept at the entrance to a tomb. The dream was so disturbing she was glad when she woke, except for the lingering feeling it had been a noise that had awakened her.
Someone knocked at the door. Not Jess’ special knock. “Who's there?” she asked, sitting up in bed.
"Jeremy.” A man's voice, but muffled and indistinct, as though Jeremy didn't want to be overheard.
She leaped out of bed, hurrying to slide back the bolt and open the door. She gasped. Not Jeremy, but Van Allen Reid stood facing her. Before she could move, he pushed past her into the bedroom, grabbed her and shoved her to one side as he closed the door and rebolted it.
After the fiasco with Campbell in the Sierras, she'd bought herself a derringer in San Francisco, but the gun was on the stand beside her bed. She wrenched away from Van Allen and rushed across the room. As she reached for the pistol, his hand closed over her wrist and he yanked her away from the bed.
He pulled her against him and she smelled whiskey and cigar smoke. He let go and slapped her, hard. She cried out and staggered back, falling across the bed.
A match flared and she saw Van Allen's pale face smiling at her. A cruel smile.
The match sputtered out. She rolled over and sprawled across the bed, reaching for the pistol on the stand. Her fingers scrabbled in vain. Where was it?
Another match flared and she saw Van Allen lighting the lamp. After replacing the chimney, he turned to her and said, “Is this what you're looking for?” He showed her the derringer in his hand before dropping the gun into a pocket of his frock coat.
Monique pushed herself off the bed. Her jaw hurt and her heart thudded in apprehension. Refusing to be daunted, she watched him closely, waiting for a chance to elude him, unbolt the door and escape.
The lamp? She'd thrown one at Alex Campbell. The windows? Even if she managed to shatter the glass, could she escape through it? The bedroom was on the second floor after all. The knife from the boarding house, the one that killed Philippe, rested inside a dresser drawer she probably couldn't reach. Before she thought of any other possibility, Van Allen walked toward her. She drew in her breath, standing her ground. The lamp was behind him, his face in shadow.
"Remember the first time I came here?” he asked.
How she forget? But she didn't reply.
"I paid you a thousand dollars.” He paused, his face inches away from hers. “Do you know what you're worth to me now?” He reached into his pocket, took out a coin and threw it on the bedside stand.
Despite herself, Monique glanced at the coin. A quarter. Color flooded her face.
"You killed Philippe.” She wanted to shout the words, but they came out as a near whisper.
Van Allen shrugged.
"You're a brave son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?” she asked. “Killing a gentle man who never harmed you."
He reached to his belt, and when he held up his hand, the lamplight glinted on the blade of a knife. He held the knife beneath her chin, the tip pricking her flesh.
"You were only a thorn in my flesh at first,” he said. “Lately, you've become a festering sore."
"Good,” she told him with defiance strengthening her voice.
"Do you know
what they do with festering sores? They lance them."
She suppressed a tremor of fear. Besides Philippe, who knew how many men's deaths Van Allen was responsible for? He'd lied and cheated his way to power in Virginia City, and she realized he believed he was untouchable. Which was very nearly the truth.
"You have good reason to be afraid,” he told her. “When I'm through with you, you won't be able to sell yourself for even two bits. You'll have to give yourself away."
He slid the knife back into its sheath, took out a large handkerchief and twirled it into a gag. Or a garrote? With the twisted handkerchief between his hands, he advanced on her. Monique drew back until she felt the bed against the back of her legs. He reached for her, and she screamed.
He shoved her backwards onto the bed, forcing the gag into her mouth. As he tied it at the back of her head, she heard a sound in the hall and he heart leaped with hope.
"Miss Monique? You all right?” Jess called through the door.
The gag prevented any answer, prevented her from trying to warn Jess danger waited inside, not only for her, but for him. Van Allen turned his back to face the door and she fumbled at the knot behind her head.
She heard a thud and pictured Jess slamming his powerful body against the locked door. The thud came again. Wood cracked. Again. Wood splintered, the bolt gave and the door burst open, catapulting Jess into the room. He stumbled, regaining his balance just as she yanked the gag off.
Van, pistol in hand, faced the door, faced Jess. “Get out of here, nigger,” he ordered.
"Go to hell, white man,” Jess snarled.
Jess dodged to one side as Van Allen's gun roared. Monique sprang from the bed, grabbed his arm and pulled it down, but he shook her off, lashing out with the pistol as he shoved her away from him. The barrel struck her shoulder and she cried out with pain.
Jess picked up the table, the lamp crashing to the floor, plunging the room into darkness except for the dim swath of light from the hall. Monique saw Jess with the table held high over his head. She dropped to her knees and, doing her best to ignore her hurt shoulder, grabbed hold of Van Allen's leg and pulled, just as Jess hurled the table at him. Van Allen's gun roared once more, the acrid fumes filling her nostrils.