Concern, as false as it was blatant, covered Desdemona’s face. “Wouldn’t you like to be invited to the best parties? Have the best people clamoring for an invitation to your house? Dine with the president or hear the latest piano sonata from Europe? Doesn’t that sound marvelous? As soon as I persuade Captain Lindsay to forgive you and you divorce…”
Viola stomped her foot. “Enough of this. I’m here to talk to you about Hal.”
“Hal? Why him?”
“Don’t ask him for anything he’s not willing to give.”
“What on earth are you talking about? Hal is a grown man with a mind of his own.”
“I saw you two together last night. If you try to cozen him into anything, I’ll tell Father about your goings-on during the war.”
Desdemona’s eyes widened. Rosalind held her breath.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Desdemona said hoarsely.
“Wouldn’t I?”
Rosalind was quite certain that Viola could make a fortune at the poker table. Bluffing or not, she was playing her hand with all the assurance of someone holding a royal flush.
“He’d never believe you,” Desdemona stammered hoarsely,
Viola shrugged. “Can you take the chance that Edward Ross didn’t leave me—his widow—his evidence of your misdeeds? Or that Father will listen to me?”
Desdemona closed her eyes. “What do you want?”
“Let Hal make his own choices. Believe that I will do anything, and everything, to see that he has a happy life of his own making.”
Desdemona mumbled something under her breath, her face twisted and angry. Finally, she nodded. “Very well.”
“If you think to renege on this agreement, Mother, don’t. Because I can tell Father at any time, should the need arise.”
Desdemona hissed like an angry goose before she cleared her expression. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure our understanding will hold. But don’t think you’ll ever be welcome in my house.”
She tossed her head and flounced into the grand saloon, banging the great doors.
Viola sighed then squared her shoulders. “You can come out now, Mr. Carstairs.”
Rosalind took a deep breath before walking around the corner with all the nonchalance she could muster. She should have known Viola, who’d lived on the frontier for years, would realize she was there. “Good morning, Mrs. Donovan.”
Viola raised an eyebrow at Rosalind. “Mr. Carstairs, I am well aware you heard every word that just passed. I am equally certain that, as Mr. Lindsay’s cub”—was there a slight emphasis on the last word?—“you will behave with the utmost discretion.”
Rosalind didn’t know all the secrets in the Lindsay family, nor did she want to learn them. But she was certain that she wanted Hal to be happy. She bowed formally. “You have my word, Mrs. Donovan.”
“Thank you.” Viola looked somewhat mollified. “Then I bid you adieu, Mr. Carstairs, while I rejoin my husband.”
Rosalind touched her hat respectfully. Personally, she would not care to have Viola Donovan as an enemy. “Good day, Mrs. Donovan.”
Her heart pounding with rage, Desdemona Lindsay managed a smile and a wave for the two young officers. She declined their offer of breakfast with a shake of her head and another smile, this one genuinely regretful. Young military men frequently left the army and went into a truly important field, like politics or railroads, making it advantageous to keep their friendship. Similar officers had provided such interesting, and useful, gossip during the recent unpleasantness. Besides, their handsome young bodies were such a pleasant relief for tired eyes, after days of looking at the boring river.
One last nod for the steward—a most polite fellow who definitely understood the homage due his betters—and she finally regained the sanctuary of her stateroom. Her ornate toiletries set gleamed on the dresser, the heavy Georgian silver a silent reminder of her true position in society.
How dare Viola speak to her own mother like that? Intolerable! And to suggest that she’d speak to her father about her mother’s long-ago behavior—ridiculous! Anyone who had married that ill-bred drunk, Edward Ross, just to keep his mouth shut, would hardly start chattering now.
Hopefully, Nicky’s men would kill that upstart Irishman soon. Then she’d make sure Viola would use his money to buy an important husband, preferably someone in politics. It would be very useful to have a persuadable politician in the family, unlike those arrogant and ridiculously upright Lindsays. And once Hal found that silly Schuyler chit and married her, the family would rival the Vanderbilts.
With that logic, Desdemona felt able to draw a deep breath for the first time. She closed her eyes and concentrated on calming down. In and out, very slowly, very evenly. She was barely conscious of the limits set by her tight corset, after so many years of wearing one. She caressed her silver hand mirror with a reminiscent smile, remembering how her cousins had flown into a jealousy flurry years ago when they saw this wedding present.
A light tap on the door spun her around with an irritated jerk. Who on earth would disturb her?
Her husband closed the door behind him. He carried a small tray, covered with brioche and the necessities for tea.
Desdemona, who’d opened her mouth to complain, shut it again. Why was Richard serving her tea? He always left that sort of task to servants.
“Tea, Desdemona?”
“Of course.” She watched him manage the fine details of removing the used leaves, stirring in cream and sugar—all in a small space that barely gave her room to shake out her skirts. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” He didn’t glance around.
“Be so neat and clever in such a small space.”
“It’s far larger than my midshipman’s berth on the Constitution,” he observed as he gave her the cup of tea, fixed precisely the way she preferred and accompanied by a small brioche, which smelled deliciously of butter. His expression was the courteous mask he frequently wore in public, revealing nothing of his thinking.
The tea and brioche smelled heavenly, reminding her of how little she’d eaten for breakfast. She bit into the rich treat, savoring how it melted on her tongue.
“Did you have a good constitutional this morning?”
Desdemona barely managed not to drop her cup. Instead, she lifted her eyes, keeping them as innocent as possible, to him. “It was perfectly acceptable, thank you. I saw a number of egrets, whose feathers could be most profitable if sold for hats. And—”
“How is Mrs. Donovan?” His tone sharpened.
So he wanted to play it that way, did he? No more ignoring their daughter’s presence onboard, at least in private.
“She seemed quite well.”
Richard’s eyes searched hers. He had amazing eyes: gleaming gray like noonday sun on a sword blade, as her brother had once said. She kept her expression guileless, although inside every sense had come to quivering alertness. What did he truly want?
“Do you think so?”
“Of course. What could be wrong?”
“Indeed. How could there be trouble?” His tone was firm and authoritative, yet she sensed wariness. She was deeply relieved when his eyes released hers. He rose and began to pace with his hands clasped behind his back, his teacup left behind on the tray.
“We’ve done very well for ourselves, haven’t we, Desdemona?” he observed. “You bore me three beautiful children who lived to adulthood and we already have four handsome grandchildren. We have two magnificent houses, besides our estate in Cincinnati. Our health is excellent. Yet—”
“What more could we ask for?” she asked lightly. “A castle in Spain?”
He spun to face her. “Our children’s happiness?” he countered, his eyes intent on her face.
Desdemona blinked, honestly startled. Why on earth was he thinking about that? “What do you mean?”
“Despite our quarrels, Desdemona—”
Such as the one where you cut off my dress allowance for six months?
>
“You’ve always been very concerned with our children’s future. So let’s discuss something important to both of us.”
“Juliet is extremely successful,” Desdemona answered, keeping to a safe topic. “She has a wealthy husband, four children, and five—or is it six?—houses. She’s also a leader of New York society with entrée into every important gathering. In short, she has everything she’s always wanted.”
“True, that’s exactly what Juliet sought. But what of Hal? Or Viola?” He seemed pensive, an unusual emotion in a man whose overwhelming self-confidence had once attracted her. Nicky might have a pretty face—and a beautiful body—but his manners were so smooth as to lack that arrogant edge of self-assurance that Richard wielded so well.
“We only have one daughter now,” Desdemona reminded her husband. He was the one, after all, who’d disinherited their youngest daughter and forbidden her name to be spoken in his house. Seven years later, Desdemona still wasn’t ready to talk about Viola, even if her husband was. Too much conversation might reveal why Viola had married Edward Ross.
Richard’s eyes bored into hers. “Let us speak the truth here, Desdemona, where no one else can hear us.”
Desdemona covered her involuntary shiver by buttering another brioche. Once Richard took a notion into his head, it would be easier to turn the Ohio River from its course than change his mind. And if he decided to ask the reasons for Viola’s actions, what could she say? So many years had passed; could she persuade him that she didn’t remember?
She chose her words carefully. “Viola Donovan seems very content with her lot.”
“Yes, she does. And the way that big Irishman watches her, as if she were the sun and moon.” He drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “We looked at each other the same way, when we were first married.”
She smiled, remembering those long-ago days. She’d been sixteen and visiting her cousins’ rich James River plantation when she’d met him. Wretchedly lonely and angrily conscious of her low status as a poor relation from uncivilized Kentucky, she’d been instantly attracted to Lieutenant Richard Lindsay’s size and animal magnetism at the Norfolk naval base. She’d immediately practiced her first come-hither glances on him.
When she’d learned he was from a wealthy New York family, she’d made a determined play for him, planning only to rub her cousins’ disparaging noses in her success. But what had started as a pretense of passion turned into truth as she spent more and more time with him. When he proposed—and offered to resign from the Navy so that they could live near her family—she’d thought herself the luckiest woman in America. Thirty-five years later and the founder and owner of the second largest packet company in the United States, an empire that even Commodore Vanderbilt hadn’t been able to conquer, Richard was still a very impressive parti.
“Yes, we were happy then,” she agreed, more to herself than to him.
“We’ve had arguments from time to time but we’re still together,” he remarked, his eyes resting on hers.
Together? She nodded agreeably, carefully masking her expression as she’d learned to do during the war. She’d hated him when he enlisted in the Union Navy, while her brothers and nephews had served the Southern cause. To this day, she regretted none of her actions during that unpleasantness, and she certainly saw no need to welcome him back into her bed. Unless he decided to send her back in disgrace to Kentucky and her family, of course. In that case, she’d use whatever means were necessary—including seducing him—to maintain her status.
Richard’s mouth tightened, making her uneasily aware of just how often he’d successfully read others’ expressions. Then he moved away to the window.
“But Hal is different.” A tic throbbed in his cheek before he spoke again. “He’s not happy, Desdemona.”
“He’s a very wealthy man,” Desdemona protested. “He’s also well-respected and has excellent connections.”
“Especially with the military,” Richard agreed.
Desdemona’s mouth thinned. Hal should have obeyed her and fought for the South. On the other hand, if he and Richard had gone south, she’d be living off others’ charity, as her cousins were.
Still, cream always rises to the top, as her grandmother always said. She’d send her cousins some hand-me-downs when she returned to Cincinnati and civilization. By then, it would be time for her new fall wardrobe from Paris. Pleased by the vision of her cousins’ frustrated envy, she listened to Richard’s bragging about the war with equanimity.
“I always tried to mold him into a valorous officer. The feats Hal pulled off with that stinkpot and later with the St. Paul made him a legend in both the Mississippi Squadron and the Atlantic Fleet.”
“And you did help him,” she snapped, irritated by his continuous talk of Hal’s service in the Union Navy.
“Do you think so? Or do you think I used the cane too often and too hard? He ran away so soon after the last caning that I’ve always wondered if it was my fault.”
Desdemona stared at him, totally shocked. Richard had always been a model father—stern but fair towards all his children. So what if Hal had been punished more often than his sisters? He’d been naughty far more often. “Caned him too often? What are you talking about? You did no more than a father’s right and duty to a disobedient, unruly son!”
“I lost my temper the last time. He looked so small and fragile lying there in the bed afterwards,” he muttered. “And when he said, last week, that another caning…”
Desdemona rose and wrapped her arms around him, the first time she’d willingly sought him out since the war. Perhaps her proximity would distract him from this nonsense. “Hush now, hush. You were always a very gentle father. Why, you wouldn’t even permit me to spank Viola, no matter how often she accompanied Hal’s escapades.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes searched hers, which irritated her. She wanted to shake some sense into her idiot husband.
“Tradition said to use stern discipline, but I’ve always wondered if my son’s happiness was more important.”
“Of course, I’m sure,” she purred, forcing herself to gentle her tone. “Mothers know these things. Hal is a good man today because of you.”
He leaned his chin against her hair, hiding his expression and mussing her elegant coiffure. She bit her lip against a reproof; Rebecca would have to rebraid it later.
“Thank you, my dear, for supporting me.” His voice was steadier now so, hopefully, he had put aside any worries about Hal’s upbringing. Better for him to focus on more important things, such as finding and marrying Hal to the Schuyler chit.
Hal paced the hurricane deck, happily standing anchor watch at one of his favorite spots on the Missouri, and watched the setting sun paint the western bluffs in shades of crimson and gold. The Cherokee Belle had tied up for the night where a small stream, its path edged by cottonwoods, joined the river. This anchorage gave a good view of the higher ground to the west and the river’s sandbars and scrubby islands, now slowly disappearing under the spring rise’s high waters. A large oak grove topped the bluffs here, while just visible to the southeast lay the old mountain man’s woodyard.
A barred owl, the only owl who liked fish, swooped down and snatched his dinner out of the river. It headed west for the grove—then suddenly banked and flew south, past the trees and out of sight. Had something—or someone—disturbed it?
From below Hal’s feet, he could smell coffee and hear the string orchestra tuning up for the evening’s concert. Rosalind and Bellecourt were down there, playing cribbage in the bar. A smile played over his mouth at the thought. Bellecourt was unlikely to bowl her over as quickly as he did others.
A flash of bright light, like the sun shining off a mirror or polished metal, caught Hal’s eye from one of the oaks atop the bluff. Old instincts stirred, then relaxed at the lack of any other hint of human presence there.
The flash was unlikely to come from a sniper sitting in a tree. Only white men would fire on the vulnerable
pilot in the glass-walled pilothouse, as Hal’s wartime experiences in guerrilla territory had taught him. But there’d been no talk of river pirates or road agents, nor any sightings of skulkers along the bluffs.
Still, he studied the high ground to see what had caused that flash, too experienced in rough country to overlook the prickling at the nape of his neck.
“May I join you, Hal?” Viola interrupted his survey as she ascended the stairs to the hurricane deck.
“Of course.” He sprang forward and assisted her up the last few steps. She spared barely a glance for the hurricane deck, with its workmanlike assortment of steps down from the Texas’s cabins, pipes for the Belle’s innards, the hog chains overhead that stabilized the riverboat’s trim, and the knee-high railing. Wrapped in her elegant sealskin cape against the spring evening’s almost wintry chill, she dodged the obstacles neatly, then turned to look downstream.
“Can we still see the woodyard?” she asked as she produced a small telescope and began to scan the Missouri’s eastern edge, beyond the Belle’s starboard side.
“Over there, just beyond that big cottonwood…See?”
“Ah, there it is!” She focused the telescope and studied the woodyard. “Amazing. People in San Francisco will never believe such a place exists.”
“You mean they’ve never seen a woodyard surrounded by skulls on tall stakes? Why, I thought you could see and do anything in San Francisco,” Hal teased gently, keeping his face straight with an effort.
“Exactly. Woodyards in San Francisco are much more civilized. They rely on dogs, or perhaps honking geese, to keep trespassers out, not evidence of long-dead Indians,” Viola said firmly. “At any rate, those mortal remains should be properly disposed of in a manner sympathetic to their people’s beliefs.”
“But they do keep savage Indians away from that woodyard,” Hal argued mildly. A little further north, and he’d openly wear his Colts, as would most of the other men onboard. Sampson’s prohibition against the display and usage of firearms, lest the ladies be disturbed, was lifted in Indian country.
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