Jade Star (12 page)

Behind him he heard Jules's soft voice. “Thomas!” He stepped aside and watched brother and sister embrace, Thomas awkwardly patting Jules's back.

Saint said quietly, “After everyone has left, Thomas, why don't you stay awhile? We can talk. As for you, my dear,” he continued to his new wife, “would you care for a glass of punch? I'm sure Thomas is also very thirsty.”

Before the evening was over, Saint was approached by two ships' captains. Captain Richards of the
Occidental
said, “Wilkes has been a thorn in my side for years, Saint. David Gascony and I were talking. When we get to San Francisco, we've decided to look the bastard up and—”

“And what?” Saint asked, touched and amused by their concern. “There's nothing any of us can do, unfortunately. If you and John made a fuss in San Francisco, my wife's reputation would be seriously damaged, and she would be hurt even more than she has been here.”

“Damn,” said David Gascony. “I hate to think the bastard will simply get away with it!”

“At least,” Mark Richards said, stroking his full whiskers, “you didn't let her bastard of a father get away with his rotten words, blast him.”

Dwight Baldwin said, humor lacing his deep voice, “I agree completely, Mark. Would you believe it? Etienne called me to his house to take care of his jaw. I tell you honestly, I was sorely tempted to finish the job. I covered the entire side of his face with iodine, Saint, and told him in all seriousness not to talk for at least three days.”

The men laughed. Jules looked up at the sound of Michael's rumbling laughter, and blinked. She thought it was the first time he had truly laughed since she'd seen him again. It was a wonderful sound. He's my husband, she thought. My husband.

“I'll tell you something else, Saint,” Dwight said a little while later. “Etienne knew I was going to marry the two of you. He just looked at me, didn't say a single word, and I swear to you, I think he was delighted. In fact, it occurred to me that he may
have perhaps denounced his daughter to force your hand.”

“Then he is indeed a despicable creature,” Saint said, his lips thinning. “I tell you, Dwight, if heaven is populated with a congregation like him, I don't think I want to get past Saint Peter.”

“One saint telling another saint to remove himself? Impossible, my dear fellow!”

Dwight arranged with his friends the Markhams to lend a small house to the newlyweds. It was located near Makila Point, only a fifteen-minute carriage ride south of Lahaina. Saint didn't want to be alone with Jules, but there was nothing he could do save accept the Markhams' offer with good grace. He waited until Jules went upstairs with Mrs. Baldwin to pack her few things before speaking to Thomas. Dwight, a gentleman of great understanding, left them alone in the parlor.

“I hate him,” Thomas said without preamble. “I hadn't realized how much until I saw how he treated Juliana. And John Bleecher—dammit, Saint, the fellow's paltry, a coward! He and Sarah deserve each other!”

“I agree with everything you've said, Thomas,” Saint said, lowering his body into a comfortable chair. “The question is, what are you going to do?”

Thomas DuPres drew a deep breath and blurted out, “I want to go to San Francisco with you and Juliana.”

Saint saw the pleading and defiance in the young man's eyes, and slowly nodded. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Unfortunately, Jules and I won't be leaving until next Wednesday, aboard the
Oregon.
Where will you stay until then? I assume you know that your sister and I are expected to be alone.”

“I've already asked my friend Hopu. Hell, Saint, I'd sleep on the beach if I had to.”

“Have you thought about what you want to do when we reach California?” Saint held his breath, fearing he'd hear Thomas spout off about finding gold and becoming rich overnight. He was blessedly surprised when the younger man said, his voice rich with determination, “That's easy. I want to be a doctor, like you.”

Saint said on a slow smile, “Excellent, Thomas,” He rose and firmly clasped his hand. “Will you say good-bye to your parents?”

“I don't know,” Thomas said truthfully. “Perhaps by Wednesday I'll be able to, but not now.”

“I know just what you mean. Indeed I do. Now, let's drink a bit of Dwight's excellent brandy.”

“Father has always hated Juliana,” Thomas said, swishing the amber liquid in his glass some moments later. “She's so different, you know.”

“I've often wondered about that,” Saint said.

“I overheard him talking to my mother about Juliana some years ago—complaining, of course. I think it's all because—and you won't believe this—my mother's mother was a French actress, and Juliana is the very image of her. Evidently my grandmother called my father a petty bourgeois, told my mother she was a stupid twit to marry such a pious prig. My father, of course, could just barely overcome his scruples to marry my mother. And he quickly removed her from all sinful influences.”

“I begin to understand,” Saint said. “Hair as red as sin and eyes just as wicked, is that it?”

“Yes, I suppose that's it. But it's paltry, Saint, to dislike a person—your own child, for heaven's sake—all because she resembles someone else.”

It was more than “paltry,” Saint thought later; it was an illness that no physician could cure.

 

It was a beautiful, calm evening, the waves breaking gently onto the shore, their white crests gleaming nearly silver under the half-moon and brilliant stars.

“We're married,” Jules said, staring out over the water from her perch on some volcanic rocks.

“Yes,” Saint agreed, wishing she weren't sitting so close to him, “yes, we are. Is it all right with you, Mrs. Morris?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to face him. “I promise I won't be very expensive, Michael. I like that—Mrs. Juliana Morris.”

There was humor in her voice and it pleased him inordinately. He took her hand in his without meaning to. Her flesh was warm and soft. “That's a relief,” he said, smiling at her, “because I don't have that much money. It isn't unusual for my patients to pay me with favors.”

“I'm fortunate then,” she said with great insight, “else you might have had more trouble rescuing me, isn't that so?”

“Yes, that's so,” he said, releasing her hand. A strand of thick hair blew across her face, and without thinking, he reached up to smooth it back. She grew very still, her large vivid eyes unwavering on his face.

He rose abruptly, keeping his back to her. He looked down at his enthusiastic member, now bulging against his trousers, and cursed softly. “It's late,
Jules,” he said, his voice sounding harsh. “Go to bed.”

Jules stared at his rigid back. “I think I'd rather go swimming,” she said softly.

He quivered at that, remembering that night on the beach, her eyes on his naked body. He closed his eyes a moment, but he saw her in his vivid fantasy, saw his hands widening her legs, saw his hands stroking up her thighs to clutch her hips, to bring her down upon him.

“Go to bed,” he repeated.

“But don't you want to—?”

He whirled around. “Damn you, Jules, get into the house! I am your husband, and you'll obey me. Now!”

Jules woke up abruptly, disoriented for several moments. She stared about the small bedroom and for a brief instant thought that Wilkes was here, and she was again his prisoner.

When she read Michael's brief note, propped up on the kitchen table, telling her he had gone into Lahaina to fetch some food, she felt at first profound relief, than a spurt of anger.

Why hadn't he awakened her? She felt as if she were in some kind of quarantine. Was he afraid that she would be stoned for a harlot if she were to show her face again?

She stripped off her modest cotton nightgown, wrapped her swimming sarong around her, and left the house.

 

“Jules! I'm back!”

There was no answer. Saint saw her rumpled nightgown on the floor and shook his head. He knew where she was. He closed his eyes a moment. Please, he prayed, she wouldn't, couldn't, swim nude as he had done that night.

He strolled onto the beach, shaded his eyes against the bright morning sun, and searched for her bright
head. He felt his heart pound uncomfortably for a moment when he finally spotted her. Dear heavens, she was out so far! Did she want to kill herself? He turned cold at the thought.

He was standing on the beach when Jules, having caught a big wave, was carried nearly to his feet on her stomach. She was laughing. He watched her stand and wring out her hair. The sarong molded her young body, leaving very little to the imagination—at least to his imagination.

“You swam out a good mile,” he said, his voice rough, hands on hips.

Jules smiled at him. “Good morning. Yes, I did. I had to, you know. The reef sharks like the deeper water on the far side of that coral reef.” He followed her pointing finger.

“I see,” he said. “Come along, I've got our breakfast. Can you cook, Jules?”

“I can try,” she said, giving him a sunny, guileless smile. She'd determined a good hour ago that she wouldn't make him feel guilty for leaving her alone. She wouldn't nag him or make him sorry he'd married her. She wouldn't say a word about spending the night by herself. She would be the perfect wife.

“That sounds ominous. Perhaps together we can keep ourselves from starvation.”

She wanted to tell him how very handsome he was in his loose white shirt and black trousers. But he looked preoccupied, so she merely nodded and trotted after him into the small house.

He said, not looking at her, “Why don't you change first?”

“Actually, I'd like to get the salt water off me.
There's a fresh spring just a few hundred yards away.”

“Go ahead, then. I'll see what I can do about feeding us.”

When Jules returned some thirty minutes later, Saint realized that he had grown concerned not ten minutes after she'd left. “Next time,” he said curtly, “I'll go with you.”

“All right,” she said agreeably. “This looks delicious!”

They feasted on eggs, fresh papaya, and bread. “You, Michael,” Jules said, sitting back in her chair and patting her stomach, “are an incredible man. You can do everything.”

“Your hair is dry,” he said, disregarding her praise as he eyed the riotous curls.

She touched her fingers to her hair and sighed. “I'll have to tie the mess down with a ribbon.”

“No, leave it the way it is. I like it.”

She looked so pleased with the meager compliment that Saint flinched. He added, “Your hair is beautiful. I've always thought so.”

She actually flushed with pleasure, and he rose abruptly from the table, turning away. He closed his eyes. Lord, he didn't want the responsibility for this fairy creature. She could be too easily hurt. “What would you like to do today?” he asked. Three days and two more nights, he thought blankly. He'd slept outdoors the previous night. Thank heaven they weren't in Massachusetts, in the winter.

“I wish we had time to go to the volcano and see the sunrise. It's very spectacular.”

“We don't, unfortunately. Any other ideas?”

She was silent for a long while, staring thoughtfully down at her folded hands. “Kanola and I were
swimming off Makila Point when Wilkes kidnapped us. I thought I would be frightened to swim here again, but I wasn't. Is that . . . unnatural?”

She was such a curious little thing, he thought, staring at her. “No,” he said finally. “It means that you've got lots of common sense.”

“That or no sensibilities,” she said. “When Mrs. Baldwin took me upstairs last evening, I told her about it—Makila Point, that is. I thought she was going to faint.”

“You didn't tell her any of the rest of it?” he asked carefully.

“No, of course not.” She lowered her eyes. “She asked me if there was anything I wanted to know about my wedding night.”

Saint swallowed convulsively. “And?”

“I already know everything, Michael! I just asked her if men stuck that thing into . . .” She broke off, her face as red as if she'd been in the sun too long.

He smiled, unable to help himself. “I understand. What did Mrs. Baldwin say?”

“She said yes, that was true, and that it wasn't too bad, not really, but that she was certain that you would be very careful. I told her that it sounded very strange to me.”

“Did she say anything else?”

Jules nodded. “Yes, she said that it wasn't strange really and that you were a doctor.”

“Those two things go hand in hand? I'd never considered that before.”

She saw the amusement in his eyes, and grinned. “Now that you mention it, it doesn't make much sense, does it?”

“Not an ounce,” he agreed. “Now, Jules, since
you haven't any ideas to speak of, I think I'll go swimming.”

Saint decided that Jules's idea of the male thing that was stuck into women had originated with him. At least Wilkes hadn't paraded about in front of her naked. He suddenly remembered her few words about the sailors. She'd seen a sailor's penis—the sailor who had raped Kanola, probably. He also wondered a few minutes later as he was stroking through the water if Jules would mind lovemaking with him. She certainly seemed interested. He hadn't seen a patch of fear in her eyes when they'd spoken of her conversation with Mrs. Baldwin. Yes, he thought, she had all the frankness of a child, a child who had been desperately hurt. Despite the chill of the water, he felt himself harden. “Damned randy bastard,” he snarled at himself.

That evening, they strolled to the beach to watch the sunset. “I'll miss this,” Jules said as the sun dipped finally over the horizon, casting the sky in vivid red for a few moments. “I feel a bit like Eve being tossed out of the Garden of Eden.”

Saint, who was wearing only a shirt and his cut-off pants, dropped down on the sand and leaned back on his elbows. “Do you cast me as Adam?” he asked.

“I don't think so,” Jules said, turning to stare down at him. “I didn't corrupt you.”

“I don't think you could corrupt anyone, even if you tried your damnedest.”

“I looked at you, very closely, Michael.”

He knew immediately what she was talking about. He said, “Yes, I know. Am I the only man you've ever seen with no clothes, Jules?”

She shook her head, a quick, dismissing gesture, and said, “You're beautiful.”

“That's a novel thing to say about a man, particularly a huge hairy beast like me. But I thank you.”

Jules looked away from him, out over the water. “You changed, even while I was watching you.”

Deep waters, he thought, shifting his weight a bit. “A man,” he said very carefully, “is very simple in terms of function. When he wants a woman, he becomes larger.”

“Yes,” she said, “you did.” She suddenly turned her large emerald eyes to his face. “Did you want me?”

“I think I just hoisted myself on that evil petard,” he said, striving for some humor. “What I should have said is that sometimes a man's body reacts even when he doesn't want it to. Sometimes a man can find himself very embarrassed, and for no reason at all.”

In the darkening evening light, he couldn't make out the expression on her face, but he knew she'd stiffened.

“Jules,” he said quietly, “do you want me to make love to you?”

“You mean kiss me and touch me and stick—”

“Yes, all of that.”

“I . . . I don't know.” She sighed, hugging her arms around her knees. “I guess I speak so openly to you because I know you won't do anything to hurt me. Like John Bleecher.”

“No, I would never hurt you.”

“When I woke up this morning, I thought for just a moment that Jameson Wilkes had me again. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see John, and
I feel that awful fear. Of all of it, I guess it's the feeling of absolute helplessness, that because I'm a woman and not as strong, a man can do whatever he pleases to me. I hate that. It's not . . . right.”

“No, it isn't. But not many men are like that, Jules. Most men admire and respect women, just as I do. Shall I tell you what I would like?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I would like for you to trust me enough to tell me what happened to you during your time with Wilkes.”

He saw the frisson of distaste and fear contort her face, barely heard her whispered “No, oh, please no.” He made a vow to himself in that moment that he wouldn't touch her until he could be certain she wouldn't be disgusted by him, and afraid. He rose to his feet and dusted the sand off his clothes. “I think I'll go for a walk. Jules, if ever you do want to talk about it, I'll be around to listen.”

“All right,” she said in a small, thin voice. She watched him stride down the beach. She almost called him back. But she didn't. Slowly she lowered her face and sobbed softly against her hands. If she told him, she knew he would hate her. He wouldn't denounce her as her father had done, oh no. He would remain polite to her, and very kind. But she would disgust him, and she didn't think she could bear to see the distaste for her in his eyes.

 

The next morning, Saint watched Jules speak to Kanola's husband, a tall, sleek man who worked at the Government Market selling fresh meat. His name was Kuhio, and it was soon obvious to Saint that he blamed Jules for his wife's death. They were speaking Hawaiian, but Saint could make out a few of
Kuhio's words:
hoomanakii, ino, hookumakaia.
And Jules saying over and over the word
minamina, minamina.
Something about her regret, her sorrow.

But Kuhio kept repeating that she was vain, wicked, sinful, a mistress of betrayal.

Finally Saint stepped between them, bowed to Kuhio, and took his wife's limp hand. “Come,” he said.

“He told me that he wouldn't let me near his children after what I'd done.”

“He's grieving, that's all. It is convenient for him to have you to blame.”

She raised wide, strained eyes to his face. “He told me that I was more wicked than my father had said on Sunday.”

“Stop it, Jules! . . . Oh, damn!”

“Well, if it isn't my innocent little sister,” Sarah said, closing her parasol with an abrupt snap. “Were you speaking to Kuhio? You needn't worry, Juliana, Father has given him money to recompense him for you killing his wife.”

We're leaving tomorrow, Saint said over and over to himself. Jules won't have to put up with this anymore. His hands clenched, but he couldn't very well hit Jules's sister, though in his mind, she deserved it.

Jules simply stared at her sister, her eyes bewildered and pleading.

Saint said now, his voice bland, “How well you're looking, Sarah. I do hope that you and John Bleecher marry before your belly swells.”

Sarah gasped, then gave her sister a look of utter hatred. “You had to malign me too, didn't you? You evil, wicked girl!”

“Of course,” Saint continued, smiling, “after you marry John, I imagine you'll have to keep a keen eye on him. I do hope he doesn't give you syphilis, Sarah.”

“You filthy creature! You deserve each other!”

“And I think, my dear, that you and John Bleecher will make the perfect couple. He can make love to you in the dark, then go find himself a helpless girl to force. Do send your sister a letter announcing the birth of your first child.”

“John will kill you for that!”

For the first time, Saint felt his rage get the better of him. “I would like to get my hands on that worthless little bastard,” he said, his voice evilly pleasant. “Again. Is he hiding his black-and-blue face?”

“Please, please, stop,” Jules whispered, grabbing her husband's hand. “Sarah, you can't mean all those things you said—”

“Shut up, Jules! No apologizing to this jealous bitch! Good day, Miss DuPres.”

Saint pulled her away with him, ignoring the startled, curious glances cast their way. Let them all gossip, he thought, it wouldn't matter. Tomorrow they'd be gone.