Jade Star (11 page)

He was still smiling when he came back to where Jules and Thomas were standing. It was a ghastly, grim smile.

The smile disappeared at the sight of Jules's white face. She was standing rigidly still, her eyes staring at him but not really seeing him. “She'll be all right,” he said more to himself than to Thomas. “Jules,” he said softly. He reached out for her, only to see her shudder and stumble backward.

Jules sank slowly to her knees. She raised wide, bewildered eyes to Saint. “He said I gave it to every other man and I should give it to him. He said Sarah told him what I'd done.”

“That stupid, jealous bitch!”

“Enough, Thomas,” Saint said, turning briefly toward the young man.

Suddenly it was too much. Jules saw herself sprawled naked on Wilkes's bunk, saw him touching her, leering at her. She felt John grinding his body against hers. She clutched her arms about herself and rocked back and forth on her heels. “No, no, no,” she said softly, her voice singsong.

“Oh God, Saint,” Thomas whispered, terrified. “Do something!”

“Take John away from here, Thomas,” Saint said quietly. “Leave me alone with her. Don't let anyone else come along, all right?”

John was staggering toward them, and Thomas quickly turned to run to him. Saint saw Thomas grab John's arm none too gently and drag him off. Thomas said something, but Saint couldn't make out his words.

He waited a few more minutes, then dropped to his knees in front of Jules. He clasped her chin in his hand and lifted her face. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her lips still moving, her only words “No, no . . .” He slapped her hard, and caught her so she wouldn't fall. He saw her blink, shudder, then cry out softly. Gently he drew her against him, rocking her in the circle of his arms. “It's all right now, Jules. Everything is all right. No man will ever hurt you again. I promise.”

And he included himself in that promise.

He drew a sigh of relief when she slumped against
him and began to cry. He was becoming stiff in the kneeling position, and slowly sat down, pulling Jules down beside him. He kept her face pressed against his chest, his arm supporting her.

“He's sending me to Canada,” she whispered in a deadened voice, “to Toronto, to live with his older sister Marie, who's a spinster and does good works. He said he wouldn't abide my shame here, wouldn't abide all the shame I've brought on
his
family.”

Saint closed his eyes a moment. God, what was he to do now? He said, “I will speak to your father, Jules. He will not send you to Canada.”

Jules wanted to tell him that there was absolutely nothing he could do, but she didn't say it. He'd already saved her; he'd already done much too much for her.

“John said that I'd given it to you.”

What a way to talk about sex, Saint thought, so angered at John Bleecher that if the young man had appeared, he would have started beating him again, with great relish. He clamped down on his anger and said quietly, “John Bleecher is a spoiled, thoughtless little rich bastard. I don't know what your sister said to him, but I fully intend to speak my mind to her!”

He felt Jules's head shaking against his chest. “No, please, Saint,” she said. “Sarah loves him and she . . . let John have her. He's got to marry her. She's just afraid that he won't, now that I'm still alive.”

“She deserves to be horsewhipped.”

To Saint's relief, he heard Jules laugh. It wasn't much of a laugh, but it was a start. She was resilient, his Jules. “I agree,” she said. “And you may be certain that I'll blister her ears.”

“Good. And you may be certain that I'll speak to your father. Canada, for God's sake!”

 

Saint faced Reverend Etienne DuPres across the man's huge mahogany desk. What a paltry, mean-spirited specimen he was, Saint thought. No humor, no love, just the kind of fanaticism that kills the spirit, doesn't save it. He said without preamble, “I've come about Jules.”

“Her name is Juliana,” DuPres said, distaste plain on his face.

“Fine. In any case, I've come to speak to you about your younger daughter. She told me that you intend to send her to Canada.”

“Yes, that's right. I will not abide her presence here any longer than I must. She is a blight on her family. My sister will take her in hand.”

“May I ask why you consider her a blight?” Saint asked calmly, too calmly.

“Come, Dr. Morris,” DuPres said, his hands shaking with disgust, “I have no doubt that you, along with many others, have enjoyed my daughter's body. I will abide no harlot in my house.”

“Didn't you listen to her? Didn't you hear what she had to say? None of it was her fault, and, I might add, she is still a virgin. She is the furthest thing from a harlot. She is pure and innocent.”

And she's been hurt, God, hurt so much.

“Dr. Morris, I understand that many men, once they've taken a woman, don't wish to be bothered with her anymore, you included, evidently. I am her father, more's the pity, and I shall do what I believe best. Now, Sir, you will excuse me.”

Saint wanted to hit him, but he remembered John
Bleecher's bloody face and moans of pain. He remembered how he'd sworn never to hit another who had not his strength. He stared a moment at Jules's father, wishing he could fathom the way the man's mind worked, but he couldn't, of course. He also realized that there was nothing more he could say. He knew now what he had to do. He knew he had absolutely no choice in the matter. He said nothing more, merely turned and strode out of the man's study and his house.

Etienne DePres stood quietly for a long time, staring at nothing in particular, his mind working furiously. He had absolutely no doubt, just as he'd said, that Saint Morris had debauched his daughter. And Juliana, with her grandmother's wild blood . . . well, he knew her for what she was, had known since she was a little girl what she would turn out to be. And now, he thought, nodding at himself in approval, he knew what he would do. He sat down at his desk and began to write.

Saint quietly slipped into the back of the Waine'e Church. It was cool inside, for the building was of stone. It could seat nearly three thousand Hawaiians, most of them packed together on the floor. There were calabash spittoons for the tobacco-chewing chiefs and ships' masters on the far side of the huge room. This Sunday morning, however, there were only about three hundred souls waiting to hear the Lord's words. Saint thought cynically that the souls gathered were so few because Dwight Baldwin, who normally preached at the Waine'e, was across the island ministering to a dying woman, leaving Etienne DuPres to exhort the flock.

He spotted Jules with her family at the front of the church, her face, beneath her plain bonnet, pale and set. He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and prepared himself to be bored.

But he wasn't. He was enraged.

After two hymns were sung, Reverend DuPres walked to his pulpit, read from the Scriptures, and spoke briefly and generally of the sins of the flesh. Nothing new in that, of course. It was one of Reverend DuPres's favorite sermons. Then he paused a moment, and Saint could have sworn that he smiled.

“It is difficult,” Reverend DuPres said, his voice rising and filling the large room, “for a man of God to be cursed with an offspring who has no moral responsibility, despite all the pious teachings she's received, despite the model of a virtuous mother and father.” He paused a moment, aware of the gasps of surprise, aware that he had everyone's attention. Saint tensed. No, he thought, DuPres won't, he wouldn't, not to his own daughter!

“As most of you know, particularly those of you who know my family well, we believed my younger daughter dead. Just as that virtuous woman Kanola is indeed dead, and with our Savior in heaven. The difference between these two women is obvious. The one chose death rather than submit to the wanton evil of the flesh. The other chose to debauch herself, to wallow in sin.”

Saint heard a snicker from one of the sailors. He looked at Jules and saw that she was rigid as a statue. Her mother's head was bowed, but Sarah, curse her, was smiling. Thomas' face was red. Saint was barely aware that he had risen and was slowly walking the long distance toward the pulpit. He felt his rage pound through him like storm-tossed waves to the shore.

“My daughter Juliana DuPres,” Reverend DuPres continued, his voice stern and cold, “has debauched herself. Indeed, she has a true sinner's disregard for what is good and Christian, and dared to come back to Lahaina—in the company of one of the men who taught her the way of the flesh.”

“You goddamned bastard, shut up!”

“I will not shut up!” Etienne DuPres shouted back at Saint, slamming his fist on the wooden pulpit.
“No, I will speak the truth, Dr. Morris! My daughter has proven herself to be a harlot, a slut! And you, sir, have added to her sins! Even yesterday, she tried to seduce, yes, seduce, my virtuous daughter's fiancé, John Bleecher! A fine upstanding young man who was appalled and who would have none of her, of course!”

“Father, that's a lie!” Thomas DuPres roared, jumping to his feet. “He tried to rape her!”

“She is to be reviled, cast out—”

Reverend DuPres got no further. Saint rushed to the pulpit, grabbed him by the lapels of his black frock coat, lifted him a good foot off the floor, and shook him as he would a rat. “You miserable lying worm!” Saint hissed at him. He drew back his arm and slammed his fist into his jaw.

Etienne DuPres collapsed unconscious to the floor.

The place was pandemonium.

Saint turned and very calmly walked to where Jules was sitting, both the white community and native Hawaiians scurrying out of his way. “Jules,” he said very gently, “come with me now.”

She raised wide, empty eyes to his face.

“Come,” he repeated, taking her hand.

“Juliana, no, you can't,” her mother whispered, but Jules ignored her. She placed her hand into Michael's and he led her unresisting from the church.

His heart was pounding against his ribs, and he could feel himself trembling. He closed his eyes a moment against the bright sun, unaware that he was squeezing Jules's hand painfully.

When he opened his eyes, he didn't look down at her beside him, merely kept walking toward the beach. The sound of the breaking waves usually soothed
him, but not this time. He led Jules to a palm tree and said quite calmly, “Sit down, and stay out of the sun. It's quite strong today. I don't want you to get sunburned.”

“I have my bonnet on,” she said vaguely, but she moved to stand beneath the palm fronds.

“All within the space of twenty-four hours I've wanted to kill two men,” he said in that same unnaturally calm voice. “I, a physician, a saver of life.”

She raised her head and saw the pain in his hazel eyes.

“It is my fault,” she said simply. “You mustn't blame yourself. You are . . . too good and kind. Perhaps he was right—my father, that is. I did choose to live instead of end my life as Kanola did. I suppose I would have allowed myself to be . . . debauched to survive. No, Michael, don't blame yourself. I am truly sorry.”

Saint shook himself. He was a damned fool, carrying on about himself when it was Jules who was suffering. “God forgive me, I'm sorry.” He pulled her against him, comforting the both of them. She was utterly passive, unresponsive.

“Jules,” he said quietly after some moments, his breath warm against her temple, “I was there only because I wanted to speak to you after the service, away from your family. I arranged with Reverend Baldwin yesterday to marry us. When he returns from tending his patient, he will.”

Jules wanted to howl and laugh at the same time. She knew what her father had said to Saint the day before; her mother had told her. She knew why he wanted to marry her. He was honorable; he felt responsible for her; he felt pity for her.

“I should have killed myself,” she said. “Then no one would hate me and revile me now.”

His arms tightened painfully around her and she cried out, unable to help herself.

Saint didn't apologize. He said furiously, “Don't you ever say such a stupid thing again! Listen to me, Jules. Even if you had been raped by a dozen men, it wouldn't have been your fault, and I wouldn't feel any less respect for you. For God's sake, if a woman dies in childbirth, is she to blame?”

“But it's true, Michael. All of them, except for Thomas, wish I were truly dead.”

“You are not to die. I won't allow you to die until you're well over eighty. You will forget your damned father, your weak, silly mother, and that mean-spirited sister of yours.”

She pulled away from him and he let her go. She said over her shoulder, her voice utterly without emotion, “It isn't fair that you feel constrained to make me your wife. I will go to Canada.”

“No, you will go nowhere, save back to San Francisco with me.” He paused a moment, then asked thoughtfully, “Did you guess that your father would treat you as he has? Is that the reason you wanted to stay in San Francisco?”

“I . . . I don't know. I can't see that it's particularly important now. I do know that my father was closeted with John Bleecher last evening. Michael, how could John lie like that?”

“Forget the little bastard,” Saint said sharply, uncomfortable with the renewed rage he felt. “Jules, will you marry me? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you come home with me to San Francisco?”

She said, in an attempt at humor, “Wouldn't you prefer me as your mistress? Isn't a wife more expensive?”

“No, I wouldn't, and frankly, I don't remember how expensive a wife is.”

Jules blinked at that, distracted. “You've already had a wife, Michael?”

“Yes, in Boston. Her name was Kathleen and she was an Irish girl. Only seventeen, but I was a wordly twenty-year-old. She left me to return to Dublin to fetch her mother. She died there of cholera, as did her mother.” Saint paused, aware that he'd spoken emotionlessly. He was also aware that he felt nothing but a faint regret now. Indeed, he could no longer see Kathleen's face in his mind's eye.

“I'm sorry,” Jules said, and quickly lowered her eyes. She felt guilty suddenly because she was glad Kathleen was dead and out of Michael's life.

“It was many years ago, and there's no reason for you to be sorry. She wasn't part of your life.” Saint's voice was natural now, and he was in firm control again. “Now, Jules, your answer, please.”

It wasn't really a question, she knew, but she didn't say that aloud. She wanted to ask him if he loved her, but she didn't ask that either. He didn't. She also knew, in that moment, that she had enough love for both of them. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, she thought blankly.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Michael, I would be honored to marry you.”

He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His friends had teased him many times about taking a wife. They would doubtless be delighted. And she wasn't a stranger to him. He had
watched his own wife grow up—at least he'd known Jules in her most formative years. And liked her and enjoyed her company.

“Come here,” he said, “and let me kiss you.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt another, equally heavy weight descend. He couldn't and wouldn't force her to be a wife in more than name, not after what she had been through.

To his surprise, Jules walked back to him, stood quietly in front of him, and raised her face. He quickly placed a chaste kiss on her pursed lips. They had been friends, and they would continue to be friends. Nothing would change that. He would never hurt her.

Jules opened her eyes. “Thank you, Michael,” she said.

“Certainly,” he said abruptly, misunderstanding her words. What did she think, he wondered—that he would ravish her here on the beach, like John Bleecher?

He caught her hand in his and they walked from the beach together.

 

Dwight Baldwin wished he'd been present at the church that morning. Certainly he'd been appalled to hear that Saint had physically assaulted a man of God, but he was willing to make allowances when he heard what Etienne DuPres had said. He smiled at Saint now as he stood beside his new bride. He looked immensely relieved, and he was smiling, thank the Lord. Poor Juliana looked numb. Perhaps everything would work out well between these two very good people. He would send many prayers heavenward to that end.

“You may kiss her now, Saint,” Dwight said.

Saint dipped his head and gently touched his closed lips to hers.

Mrs. Baldwin, a placid, plump woman, hugged Jules, and to Dwight's surprise, Jules said with some of her old enthusiasm, “I'd forgotten how beautiful your garden is, ma'am. The kukui, bananas, guava, kou—”

“Don't forget the grape arbors,” Saint added, giving her a tender smile. “Surely, Mrs. Baldwin, you remember what a naturalist Jules is. Have you any new plants to show her?”

“Figs,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “If you like, Juliana, we can serve you some at the wedding dinner.”

Jules turned wide eyes on her hostess. “Wedding dinner? But there is no one to come.”

Dwight said easily, though he thought he actually felt her pain for a moment, “Of course we're having a celebration dinner, my dear. You and Saint have many friends here. True friends, you know, remain just that.”

“I do not wish,” Jules said to Reverend Baldwin, “for you to be in disagreement with my father. It could not be comfortable for you. You have already done so much for me . . . for us.”

He wanted to tell her that he thought her father was the most unnatural creature imaginable, but he didn't. There was no reason to upset her further. “I will be just fine, Juliana. You are not to worry about anyone save your new husband, and I think the poor man is becoming faint from hunger.”

“I agree,” Saint said. “You are to talk about me, my empty stomach, and not about the Baldwins' garden.”

Jules took him at his word, and to his consternation, began to tell the Baldwins about his fine and selfless work in San Francisco.

“I think that soon you will be as noble as your nickname, Saint,” Dwight said with a crooked smile sometime later in the crowded Baldwin parlor. “You've got yourself a fine woman.”

“Yes,” Saint said, looking over to where Jules stood speaking to several local Hawaiian families. “I never thought this would happen, even two days ago.” He shook his head. “Life is bloody strange.”

Dwight laughed. “I'm just glad you weren't already married. Then we would have been in the stew!”

Saint said before thinking, “No, marriage wasn't for me. I . . .” He broke off suddenly, a flush rising on his cheeks.

Dwight patted his arm. “You'll think differently—quite soon, I would imagine. My, my, look who is here.”

Thomas DuPres, dressed in his Sunday black suit, stood uncomfortably in the doorway, his hands nervously picking at the rim of his hat.

Saint, without another word, strode to his new brother-in-law and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, Thomas,” he said.