by Marvin Kaye
"Why is that?" Madelaine asked, adding. "My felicitations on your anniversary.
May all those to come be as happy."
"Thank you," said Fanny, a smug hint of a smile showing her delight in this
occasion. "I am a fortunate woman; my husband is devoted to me."
"Yes, you are fortunate," said Madelaine. "The more so that you are fond of
him."
Fanny clasped her hand to her throat, touching her new necklace. "Dear me,
yes. I have seen marriages—well, we all have—where the partners do not suit, and
one is forever trapped trying to win the other, with flattery and gifts and other
signs of affection that gain nothing but aggravation. The greater the effort, the
greater the failure in those sad cases. Fortunately, I am not of their number."
"Which must please all your friends," said Madelaine, thinking that festive small
talk had not changed appreciably in the one hundred thirty years she had been
alive. "I see the Captain has given you a wonderful remembrance."
"So he has," she preened. "How good of you to notice." She looked around,
then moved a step nearer to Madelaine. "I mentioned Baron deStoeckl just now, in
the hope that there might be… an interesting announcement from him?"
Madelaine realized at once what Fanny sought to know; she chuckled. "Do not
let his affianced bride hear you say that, or she will never lend me his escort
again."
Fanny's face wilted. "Oh. An affianced bride, you say?"
"So he has informed me," said Madelaine, her good humor unaltered. "Dear
Mrs. Kent, you must know that even with your best efforts, few of us can become
as happy as you are with your Captain. Although I appreciate your wish to see me
thus." She regarded Fanny, trying not to lose patience with her.
"Yes," said Fanny naively. "It is true that happiness like ours is rare. But I think
it is necessary for a woman to have a husband in this world. Life is quite
impossible without one." Impulsively she put her hand on Madeline's arm. "And I
hate to see you so alone."
"I deal well enough with my single condition," said Madelaine, knowing that
Fanny intended the best for her, but offended by the intrusion in spite of her
intuition.
"But the
future; think of the future, Madame." Her pretty face was now
puckered with distress. "What will become of you? I cannot bear to think of it, not
when I know you to be a prize any man would be glad to win."
"Please, Mrs. Kent," Madelaine said, her manner less conciliating than before,
"do not think that you must make arrangements for me. I have no wish to be any
man's prize. I am capable of caring for myself; I value your interest as I ought, but
I must ask you not to pursue the matter."
Fanny dabbed a tear from her eye with her lace handkerchief. "If you insist, I
will refrain, but why I should, I cannot grasp. Surely you must know that we all
wish you well. Nothing would please us more than to see you well situated." She
lowered her eyes to the flower beds. "This will be so splendid next spring. Don't
you look forward to seeing it?"
"Yes," Madelaine answered, "and I regret that I will no longer be in San
Francisco when they bloom."
Fanny's expression changed to shock. "What are you saying, Madame?"
"Only that my purpose for being in your country will take me away from here
before much more time goes by; I will be leaving soon, ahead of winter setting in,
for I do not like hazardous travel," said Madelaine, trying to make these statements
calmly so that Fanny would not be too inquisitive about her plans.
"Gracious," said Fanny, nonplussed to the point of brief silence. "What
purpose is that, Madame de Montalia?"
"I am making a study of America; the United States are part of my subjects." It
was not a lie, Madelaine reminded herself, though it was also not quite the truth.
"But why would you want to do that?" Fanny marveled. "Why should a wellborn woman like you undertake so arduous a task?"
"Curiosity," said Madelaine. "Women are supposed to be more curious than
men, aren't we?"
"Well, I suppose so," said Fanny dubiously, then turned as she heard her name
called. She waved in response, then looked guiltily at Madelaine. "Oh, dear. You
must excuse me, Madame. My husband needs me."
"By all means," said Madelaine, and went back to her perusal of the flower
beds. But she could not bring herself to concentrate on what she saw now, for
Fanny Kent's well-meaning interference niggled at the back of her thoughts, and
she remembered how Saint-Germain had cautioned her against making herself too
noticeable in society. At the time, she had thought the advice too protective, but
now she could perceive the reason for his warning, and she tried to think how best
to undo the damage she had done.
A short while later, Baron deStoeckl found her once more. He carried a glass
of champagne, and he smiled broadly, his whole manner amiable, his eyes shrewd.
As usual, he addressed her in French. "How are you faring, Madame?"
"Well enough," she said, taking care not to appear too interested in him.
"Fanny Kent was hoping she could make a match of us."
Baron deStoeckl chuckled. "And did you tell her of my promised bride at
home?"
"Yes," said Madelaine. "I think she was more disappointed than shocked."
He strolled along beside her, content to say little as they went. Finally, as he
reached the foot of the garden, he remarked, "I hope you will not allow yourself to
worry about what she said to you."
"It is not my intention," said Madelaine, trying to sound unconcerned, and
went on impulsively, "but it galls me to think I have been foolish enough to expose
myself to her…"
"Scrutiny?" suggested deStoeckl when Madelaine did not go on.
"Something of the sort," she admitted. "Though that may be too strong a
word."
They started back to where most of the guests were gathered. DeStoeckl
gestured to indicate the expansive garden. "You know, at the rate this city is
growing, holdings of this size will soon vanish. Ask William what it was like when
he was in California the first time. It was nothing like the place you see now. Once
the Rush was on, San Francisco mushroomed. And it is mushrooming still." He
grinned impishly. "William learned a great deal then, and it has stood him in good
stead now. He claims that at the time, he had other things on his mind. Ask him
why they called Monterey Bay 'Sherman's Punch Bowl,' six years ago."
"You may be right about the city," she said with verve, not wanting to be
pulled into talking about Sherman. "Though it would be a pity to lose this garden."
"The price of land is rising steadily," deStoeckl reminded her. "And buildings
are going up everywhere. I venture to guess that one day the city will stretch from
the Bay to the Pacific itself." He saw the mayor signal to him. "I will return later,"
he said as he went to answer the summons.
It was too early to leave the party, but Madelaine wanted some relief from it.
She went into the house and looked about for the library; the chance to read
would diminish her growing anxiety.
There was no library, only two small shelves of boo
ks in the withdrawing
room. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the limited fare, and taking a copy of
Bleak House from the top shelf, sat down to read, deciding she would discover at
last what it was Sherman so admired in Dickens.
"I wondered what had become of you," said a voice from the door; a young
importer stood there, smiling fatuously at Madelaine. "No fair, you running off the
way you did."
"It is too bright in the garden; I fear I do poorly in such bright sun," she said,
noticing the fellow looked a bit flushed. "So do you, it would seem."
"The sun doesn't bother me," he boasted and held up his glass in a toast to
her. "But not looking at you does. You're better than the sun any day of the
week."
This flattery was more alarming than complimenting; Madelaine began to
wonder if the high color in the young man's face did not result from too much
champagne rather than too much sun; there was a certain glaze to his eyes that
suggested it. A quiver of consternation went through her as she recalled other
unwelcome encounters: Alain Baudilet in Omats' garden, Gerard le Mat on the
road to her estate in Provence, Ralph Whitestone in her box after The Duchess of
Malfi. "Thank you for the pretty words," she said automatically, continuing with
great deliberation. "I think, perhaps, it is time to rejoin the others."
The young man gave her a lupine grin. "Not so fast. I thought we could have a
little… talk on our own."
"Did you?" Madelaine closed the novel and put it back into its place on the
shelf. "I fear you were mistaken." She rose and started toward the door, not so
quickly that she would seem to confront the young man. With all the composure
she could muster, she said, "Will you let me by?"
He extended his arm to block the door. "I don't think so. Not yet."
"Mr…" She could not bring his name to mind; it was something simple,
uncomplicated, but not as obvious as Smith. She maintained her outward
equanimity. "There is no reason to do this."
"There's plenty of reason," said the intruder, enjoying his position of
advantage. "And a Frenchwoman should not need to be told what it is."
Madelaine frowned. She could always scream, but that would defeat the whole
purpose of her withdrawal from the garden—to remove herself from observation
and the occasion for gossip. "I don't think you want to do this," she began
reasonably. "Please stand aside." She thought she sounded like a schoolmistress
with a recalcitrant pupil.
"Not on your life," the young man said, swaying toward her. "Not while I have
this chance." He drank the last of the champagne in his glass, tossed it away
without paying any notice to its shattering, then reached out for her.
Madelaine sought to get around him and was about to reach for something she
could use as a weapon when Sherman abruptly forced his way into the
withdrawing room, grabbing the young man by the front of his shirt to back him
up against the wall, leaning hard on him, pinning him to the wain -scoring. "You
didn't hear the lady, sir. She asked you to step aside."
The young man blanched and sweat broke out on his forehead. "I… I…"
"And you will do it, won't you?" Sherman demanded through clenched teeth.
"I…" Though bulkier than Sherman, the young man was terrified, and he
squirmed in an attempt to escape; Sherman leaned harder. "Oh, God."
The relief and gratitude that had filled Madelaine a moment before vanished in a
wash of exasperation. "Mr. Sherman," she said crisply, "I think he has taken your
meaning."
Sherman kept his relentless grip on the young man. "You will apologize to the
lady, sir," he ordered.
"I… Sorry. I… didn't mean…" He stopped as Sherman released his hold and
moved back. "I… just a mistake. Never meant anything… untoward. Upon my
word, Madame." He was shaking and kept glancing quickly at Sherman, then at
the windows, anything to avoid looking directly at Madelaine for fear of the redhaired banker's wrath.
"And because it was a mistake, you will say nothing to anyone, will you?"
Sherman pursued, giving the fellow no chance to capitalize on his gaffe through
boasting or smugness.
"No. No. I won't. Ever." With that, he bolted from the room. His hasty, uneven
footsteps were loud.
The withdrawing room was still, neither Madelaine nor Sherman being willing to
speak first. She relented before he did. "Mr. Sherman. I didn't know you were
here."
"I arrived not long after you did," he said, keeping his distance.
She had nothing to say to that. "How did you happen to follow that young man
in here?"
"Winters? I heard him boast that he would get a better taste of France than
mere champagne. When I saw him come into the house, I followed; I had an idea
he might attempt something of this sort." He locked eyes with her. "I'm sorry I
was right. I would not have you subjected to… such things for… anything."
"Thanks to your intervention, I wasn't," she said bluntly, and could read shock
in his face. "His intentions were—"
"If he had touched you, I would have killed him," said Sherman with quiet
certainty.
She achieved a rallying tone. "Now that would have been a grand gesture. And
neither of our reputations would survive it, so it is just as well you arrived when
you did." She managed to keep her hands from shaking as she slipped out the
door. "Speaking of reputations, it might be wise if we did not leave this room at
the same time. I will go back to the garden now; follow when you think best."
He nodded, and before she could turn away, he blew her a kiss.
San Francisco, 7 October, 1855
How still it is this evening. After a week of wind and fog, it has
turned bright and hot. I was surprised at this sudden change, coming
when it does in the year, though I now understand it is not unusual to
this region. I was told that this is one of the reasons vintners have
been flocking to the inland valleys north of here, where they can plant
vines with a reasonable prospect of a long, warm growing season…
It is arranged that we will depart no later than 10 October, no
matter what the weather. It is tempting to delay, but I must not, for
my own sake as well as Tecumseh's…
"I know it is what must be done, and I hate it," Sherman whispered, his hand
tangled in her hair, his leg between hers, his body replete, tired, and yet unwilling
to sleep; it was after midnight, and the city beyond the house on Franklin Street
was quiet.
Madelaine shifted her position so that she could lift herself up enough to look
into his face. "I will miss you. Tecumseh."
"I will miss you, too, and be damned for it," he said softly, the usual tension
gone out of his features, making him look younger than he was. The hand in her
hair moved down to brush her face lightly, and he stared into her eyes, wanting to
pierce more than the night. "I should never have let myself become…" He drew
her down to kiss her searchingly.
She gave herself over to his mouth, opening herself to his growing renewed
need, lying back as he made his way down her body as if by passion
alone he
could take the whole of her into himself. As he moved between her thighs, he gave
a harsh sigh, then lowered his head. Madelaine caught her fingers in his fine red
hair. "What's the matter?" she asked, sensing the return of his ambivalence.
He raised his eyes enough to meet hers. "It has nothing to do with you," he
told her, touching the soft, hidden folds of flesh and relishing the shiver that went
through her.
"If it impairs our loving, it has something to do with me," she said as gently as
she could.
"Later," he muttered.
"Now," she insisted, concern more than determination coloring her inflection.
"Very well," he said, and brought his elbows under his chest so that he could
more easily look at her without moving from his place. "Since I cannot truly grasp
the enormity of your leaving, I was thinking that this is one —one of many—
delights I will lose with you. If I could contain myself, I would do this for hours,
to have the pleasure of your transports." He laughed once, chagrined. "But I am
not patient enough for that, and so I have to make the most of our desires and be
content with memories."
Madelaine reached down and stroked his shoulder. "You are a generous lover,
Tecumseh, more than you know, and you have learned…"
"To be less precipitous?" he ventured. "To increase our gratification by
postponing its fulfillment?"
She touched his neck, feeling the strong pulse there. "It grieves me that you
cannot be as generous in your marriage as we are together."
To his acute discomfort, he blushed. "Not all women have the capacity to
enjoy these things." He rested one hand on her thigh, caressing her with delicious
languor. "And many who claim to are suspect, since it is their profession to please
men." He moved to adjust himself more comfortably between her legs, saying, "If
I had been less infatuated, less off guard, I would have kept away from you,
arranged things with one of the whorehouses for discreet…"
"Servicing," Madelaine supplied for him. "If that was your only alternative to
me, then I am gratified your infatuation was—"
He stopped her. "It isn't infatuation," he said in a flat tone. "And you know it."
She looked at him, deep into his steel-colored eyes. "I know."
This time when he sighed, he slipped away from her, ending up at the foot of