Jade Star (17 page)

“Most impressive,” she agreed. “You look a bit like Lucas, the man who works for the Saxtons. Your mother will be so taken aback, she just might forget to chew a strip off you.”

“I doubt it,” Joe said, staring at himself in the window. “Thanks, Saint. A pleasure, ma'am,” he added awkwardly to Jules.

Saint chuckled after the boy had left. “Cute lad,” he said, eyeing his wife from the corner of his eye.

“Yes, he is, very.”

Saint gently clasped Jules's hands, and brought her close to him. “Now, what's wrong, Jules?”

“Wrong?” she repeated in a shrill voice. “Whatever do you mean, Michael?”

“You went out with Chauncey Saxton, and now you've got a long face. Didn't you find any gowns you liked?”

“Certainly, but they needed altering and will be delivered tomorrow.”
I'm not going back to get them—not alone, in any case.

“Did someone say something to you?” She was so guileless, he thought, her eyes gave everything away. He could see her trying to manufacture a quick lie, and gently shook her. “What happened?”

“I met Penelope Stevenson!” she said.

“Oh no, not that godawful twit! Did she say something unkind to you?”

Penelope hadn't, but Jules nodded vigorously.

“What?”

“She said I was a . . . an adventuress!”

“Jules,” Saint said very patiently, “I am still the master storyteller in this house. Don't try to outmaster the master. If you don't tell me the truth, I'll . . . well, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe beat you, or lock you up and not feed you for three days.”

I'd rather starve and be beaten than have Wilkes hurt you,
she thought in silent misery.

“I'm waiting.”

She shook her head, stubborn as a mule. He looked at her, his frustration mounting. There came a knock at the front door. Another damned patient. He released her, a frown furrowing his forehead. “Don't you dare try to make up another story before I get back to you, Jules.”

“Michael,” she called after him, “would you like me to assist you? I've got a very steady stomach, you know.” What an inspiration, she thought, inordinately proud of herself.

“No, certainly not,” he called back when he saw who his patient was. One-armed Johnny. The last thing he wanted was for Jules to meet one of the most dishonest little bastards in the city.

“Saint, I've got a friend who got coshed on the head. He's bad, Saint, real bad.”

“All right. I'll be right along. Jules, don't wait dinner for me. This might take a while.”

“Good-bye,” she said. “Take care!”

With One-armed Johnny to protect him, he didn't have a thing to worry about, he thought, giving his wife a reassuring wave of the hand.

Her shoulders drooped when the front door closed behind Michael and that disreputable-looking man. She walked slowly into the parlor and stared about her. At least back home she could have spent hours wandering the beach and swimming. Identifying birds, feeding the fish, just enjoying the sun on her face . . . playing with Kanola's children. But Kanola was dead. So much had happened in such a short time. Too much, and yet not enough. Not only did she now have a husband, she was also a prisoner.

She decided to write to Thomas.

 

“Well, if it isn't Saint Michael and his lovely bride! Come on in, both of you.”

Saint shook his head ruefully. “You've done me in,” he said to Jules. “All right, Del, have your sport, but my wife is sworn to silence.”

“You mean silence about your other name?” Jules asked innocently, and he squeezed her until she squeaked.

Del Saxton grinned as he led Saint and Jules into the parlor. “Here's our guest of honor, Chauncey,”
he said. “Lord, you picked a beauty, Saint,” he added, giving Jules an appreciative look.

“Don't show your true colors just yet,” Chauncey said, buffeting her husband lightly on the shoulder. “Remember you're a very married man with a child to boot. Lovely, Jules, really lovely. The gown is perfect for you.”

“I agree,” Saint said. “The green nearly matches your eyes, sweetheart.” He'd had the strong urge, when she'd come downstairs to join him, to rip that lovely gown off her. Her shoulders were bared, milky white above the lace. “Lovely” wasn't the word he would have chosen for her. Her waist looked minuscule and he guessed that Lydia had pulled her stays very tight. He disapproved of that, but Jules had looked at him with such eagerness, such hopefulness, that he said nothing about the damned corset. “Beautiful,” he'd managed in a choked voice.

“Truly? You're not just saying that?”

“No, I'm not just saying that.”

She'd fluttered about for a moment, then blurted out, “It cost so much money! And all the underthings, and the gloves—”

“Don't be an ass, Jules. I thought I told you to leave the money to me.”

Even now, in the middle of the Saxtons' parlor, knowing he should have himself well under control, he wanted to lean down and kiss her white throat, and her shoulders, and the soft swell of her breasts. Lord, he wanted . . .

“You're looking lost to this world, Saint,” Chauncey said. “Come, have a glass of sherry.”

He pulled himself together and forced himself to
look at his wife without the greed of desire in his eyes. “Would you like some sherry, Jules?”

“I've never tasted it before,” Jules said, looking shyly up at her husband.

I want you so much, he wanted to tell her. Instead he said, “Just a little, Chauncey. I don't want a drunken bride.”

The Newtons arrived a few moments later. Horace eyed Jules with an experienced connoisseur's eye and nodded. “Well done, my boy. Aggie here told me what a pretty filly she was, but she didn't go far enough.”

“I feel like a racehorse,” Jules said, and everybody laughed.

Agatha hugged her briefly. “You'll have to get used to all the gentlemen looking at you like you're a new dessert, my dear. Just wait until Tony and Dan arrive.”

Tony Dawson, a journalist to his fingertips, hadn't, unfortunately, heard about Jules's background, and asked her over the first course of terrapin soup how she'd managed to tie herself to a big oaf like Saint.

Saint felt her stiffen beside him. She sent him an agonized look, her tongue frozen in her mouth.

“Jules comes from one of the Hawaiian Islands, Tony,” he said easily. “I knew her when she was a skinny little girl. I must admit, age has brought some astounding changes.”

“Hawaiian Islands,” Tony repeated, his interest aroused. “However did you get together again?”

Chauncey said brightly, “Haven't we some champagne, Del? Agatha, won't you try one of Lin's delicious rolls? Dan, some more peas?”

I can't sit here like a puppet, Jules thought, and let
everyone protect me. “I came to San Francisco and we met again, Mr. Dawson,” she said in a clear voice.

“I see,” Tony said. “Call me Tony. Everybody does, you know.”

“My father is a minister in Lahaina, Maui,” she continued, seeing that he was as confused as ever, but too polite to probe. “Michael was a doctor there.”

“Michael?” Tony said, clearly startled, and thankfully turned his attention to that new tidbit.

Saint sighed. “That's right, Tony. But please, I feel more comfortable with ‘Saint.' ”

“It fits so well,” Del said.

Dan Brewer, Del's partner, who had been told of Jules's experiences, said quite gently, “You're a fortunate lady, Mrs. Morris. We hope you will be happy here. The weather, I'm certain, isn't as Edenish as Maui, but nonetheless, I think you'll find it pleasant most of the time.”

“Edenish?” Tony repeated, a brow arched. “I'm the writer at the table, Dan. Please confine yourself to simple words and lending out money.”

There was general laughter, and Jules relaxed. So did Saint. He would speak to Tony later. In fact, he thought, he'd been a fool not to realize that something like this was likely to happen. He caught Tony's eye and gave him a simple nod.

Saint found himself looking again and again at his wife's lovely throat and shoulders. He said suddenly to Jules, “You need a necklace—emeralds, I think. Del,” he continued, “tell me where I can find some jewelry for my wife.”

“Oh no,” Jules said, aghast at the thought of the cost. “I don't want . . . that is, I don't need—”

“Certainly,” said Del Saxton. “Emeralds, with
perhaps some sapphires, would look lovely on you, Jules, particularly with that gown.”

“I agree,” Chauncey said. “Diamonds are too harsh, I think. Yes, emeralds and sapphires. Vibrant and warm.”

“It's settled, then,” Saint said, reaching under the table to squeeze his wife's hand. “I'll come see you in the morning, Del.”

Agatha said to the table at large, “It's nearly September. Do you think Brent and Byrony will be home soon?”

“The Hammonds,” Saint said to Jules. “Brent owns the Wild Star and he and his wife went to Mississippi to take care of the plantation he inherited.”

“Brent is a handsome devil, and usually quite charming,” Agatha said. “I have a feeling, though, that Byrony has him well in hand by this time.”

“He was out of hand?” Jules asked. “I thought you said he was quite charming.”

“Let's just say, love,” Saint said, “that Brent Hammond was like a fish wriggling on the line, and Byrony . . . well, she's got spirit, that girl.”

“And grit,” added Horace.

The talk continued for a while about the Hammonds, and Jules chewed thoughtfully on her baked chicken. She was very aware of her husband, the way he used his hands when he spoke, his long, blunt fingers, the deep, full laugh. She remembered Wilkes talking of Michael and all the women he'd slept with. It wasn't true, she knew it wasn't.

You should tell him about meeting Wilkes. She shook her head at her own thought, and felt miserable.

After dinner, Chauncey brought Alexandra
downstairs to be admired. Jules held the baby, such a beautiful child, and her eyes met Michael's.

“I love babies,” she said softly.

Saint felt his guts twist. He watched her as she spoke soft, meaningless words to the baby, watched her eyes light up with pleasure when Alex grabbed her finger and held it tightly. And he laughed when Jules blinked and said, “I think I'm wet, Chauncey.”

“Oh dear, indeed you are. Come with me and we'll make sure your gown isn't ruined. Del, do take Alex up to Mary for repairs.”

When Jules followed Chauncey from the room, Saint joined Tony Dawson. “I should have told you, but I forgot. It isn't for publication, of course.”

When he finished, Tony Dawson whistled softly. “Jesus, Saint, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass her.”

“You didn't know. Forget it, Tony.”

“That poor girl. Thank God you were here, Saint, and put a stop to it.”

Del joined them shortly thereafter, laughing a bit. “The joys of fatherhood,” he said. “Ah, I see you've told Tony. There is something else, Saint. Wilkes is entrenching himself quite thoroughly here. One sees him everywhere. Are you worried that he will try to make things difficult for you and Jules?”

Saint said without thinking, “If he knew she was still a vir—” He broke off, appalled. “I think I'll have some of your whiskey, Del. Excuse me.”

Tony started to say something to Del, but Del shook his head and said very softly, “Shit.”

Brent Hammond, Jules thought, was probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was tall, lean, and his incredible dark blue eyes glistened with pleasure and pride as he listened to his wife, Byrony, telling the Saxtons and Michael about Wakeville.

“So you see,” Byrony concluded, “not only are we shortly to be real parents, but we've also got an adopted family of about four hundred former slaves. And that's why it's taken us so long to come home.”

“Wakeville, huh?” Del Saxton said. “It has quite a ring to it. Now, my dear Mr. Hammond, I have a feeling that we need to talk of finance, don't we?”

Brent Hammond grinned. “Well, maybe just a bit, Del. Many of our people are quite skilled, but I'm afraid I'll need a loan to buy seed and machinery and lumber. Buying all the land, and tents to keep everyone out of the rain, about wiped me out. The land is so rich—Lord, I think you could grind any kind of seed in the world into the earth with the heel of your boot, and you'd end up in three months with—”

“The largest tomatoes,” Byrony continued, “the largest cabbages, heavens, every kind of food! We'll be self-sufficient in no time at all—”

“And of course we'll need to build houses and stores and a church,” Brent finished.

“That's quite an act you two have,” Saint said, grinning back and forth between Brent and Byrony Hammond. “I even forgot to buy a ticket.”

Jules found herself simply staring at the couple. They'd actually transported former slaves to California and were planning their own town! “I wish I had some money to donate,” she said to Byrony. “But I do have a lot of time and I could do something to help.”

Byrony patted her hand. “I appreciate that, Jules, and you may be certain that I'll be knocking on your door.” Suddenly Byrony blinked, then broke into surprised, bright laughter. “Brent, he moved!”

Brent Hammond gave his wife a long, lazy look. “He always kicks up a dust when we're in company. What do you think, Saint? A spot of brandy to quiet him down?”

“Nope, let the little devil move about. You feeling all right, Byrony?”

She nodded happily. “Not even one moment of nausea. But I'll tell you, Saint, Brent is driving me crazy! You would think that this is the first child ever to be conceived.”

“By me, at least,” Brent said. “I'm still not convinced that the rest of you could manage it half as well.”

Jules's eyes flew to her husband's face, and she swallowed a knot of unhappiness. He was smiling from his great height at Byrony Hammond.

“Brent,” Chauncey said to Jules, “believes the rest of the male population adheres to the medieval paintings showing conception through the ear.”

“Really, love,” Del said over the laughter, “a most unladylike observation. Even Saint is blushing, and Jules's face is as bright as her hair.”

Unabashed, Saint said, “I was just trying to picture in my mind how that would work.”

Jules gasped. “You're terrible!”

“I have to be somewhat outrageous to keep up with Chauncey, sweetheart.” He continued to Brent, “Are you going to keep the Wild Star?”

Brent looked thoughtful. “We haven't decided yet. I think Maggie's interested in buying me out, but it's such a steady stream of income. I don't want us to starve in Wakeville.”

“Byrony,” Saint said, “before I forget, do come see me tomorrow. I want to make certain everything is all right.”

It was the first time Jules realized that her husband, who was a man, was also a doctor, and that he would actually see and touch other women. It was most disconcerting. She heard him continue to Brent, “It occurred to me that besides medical help, your folk are going to need clothing. Tell you what, Brent, I'll contract with Jane to make clothes.”

“I'll get Horace to pay half,” Del said.

“Don't forget Bunker Stevenson, Sam Brannon, and I'll bet we can even enlist James Cora to help.”

“A ball,” Chauncey said suddenly. “A subscription ball, that's what we need.”

“With costumes, love?” Del asked. “Like the first time we met?”

“Yes, indeed, and I'll thank you, husband, not to remind me of that evening!”

“Ah,” Del said, “but there was such wit flowing, at least from this poor soul.” He held his hand dramatically over his heart.

“We could invite all the upper crust, charge them a fortune, and Wakeville would shortly be on the map,” said Saint.

“We can even ensure that Lloyd Marks is there,” Chauncey said. “He draws the maps,” she added to Jules.

“I think,” Del said, “that the Stevensons would be delighted to hold the ball at their home.”

“Yes indeed,” said Saint. “You can hint to Bunker that we'll all do our damnedest to find Penelope a husband out of the flock of men who will be there.”

“If,” Byrony said, “we could just convince Tony Dawson to be a bit mean, he'd make a perfect husband for Penelope.”

Planning the Wakeville ball went on for several more hours. Lydia served all the food in the house and cleaned out Saint's liquor supply. When the last of the guests had left, Jules sighed and walked back into the parlor.

“What a scene of devastation,” Saint said ruefully, following her.

Jules was silent a moment, then turned to her husband, blurting out, “What will you do to Byrony?”

“Do? What do you mean?” He cocked his head to one side in question.

“I mean, she's pregnant!”

“Ah,” he said. He walked to his now thoroughly embarrassed wife and took her hands in his large ones. “Yes, she is pregnant. Yes, I will examine her, thoroughly. She is a patient. I want her to go through childbirth with as little difficulty as possible, and I want her child to be as healthy as possible. That's all there is to it.”

“You don't . . . that is, you won't touch—”

He broke off her pitiful string of words. “Come sit down, Jules.” She did as he bid her, and he moved to stand by the fireplace. “You may be certain that I am not a slave to lust, my dear. As I said, Byrony, outside my office, is a good friend. Once inside my office, she is a patient.”

“But she's so beautiful!”

“True. And it bothers you that I will be touching her intimately?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's straight talking. In medical school, a long time ago—”

“Not more than nine years!”

“Well, then, nine years ago, when I ws a young man rather than a doctor, I got terribly embarrassed, more than my female patients, I'd wager, when I had to examine them. Embarrassed, not lustful. I remember once that my hands were actually shaking, and my face was red as a beet. But, you see, Jules, that young girl I was examining was very ill. She hurt. She trusted me to make her feel better. The fact that I was a young man made no difference. Pain tends to dissolve embarrassment, you know.”

Jules lowered her head. “You must think I'm an awful fool.”

“Not at all . . . well, just a bit, sweetheart. As my wife, I realize it must be difficult for you to understand that a female patient has no more sexuality to me than a male patient. But it's true.”

“But I'm not your wife,” she said, and bit down hard on her lower lip.

“Of course you are,” he said sharply, disregarding the true meaning of her words. “Now, do you believe me? Trust me?”

“Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Michael.” She fingered the beautiful emerald necklace about her throat that he'd give her two weeks before. He was so generous to her, so kind, and here she was questioning him like a silly shrew. She wanted to apologize again, but instead she heard herself asking, “Have you gone to see Jane Branigan?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I would have taken you with me, but I wasn't certain that it would be wise.”

Jules swallowed a bit painfully. “Did you kiss her?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

Yes, he thought, he had wanted to. He hurt from need. And he didn't know what to do about it, because he'd promised Jules he'd be faithful. He lied easily: “No.”

“And if Jane got sick, you wouldn't feel anything if you had to touch her?”

“Of course I'd feel things. I am fond of her, Jules. I would be frightened that she would be too ill for me to help her.”

“And if I were ill?”

He smiled at that. “I'd be scared silly. So don't get sick, all right?”

Jules felt as though she'd dug a hole a good ten feet deep and leapt into it. She fought to get out. “Thomas should be here soon,” she said.

“Yes, he should,” Saint said, relieved at her abrupt change of topic. “I've been thinking about him, and probably the best thing for him would be to go back East, perhaps to New York, to medical school.”

“But he's so young!”

“Not at all. He's twenty-two, isn't he?”

She nodded.

He found himself looking at her closely. She looked beautiful, he was used to that, but she also looked a bit pale and too thin. He frowned. Surely she couldn't be lonely. Chauncey and Agatha both spent a good deal of time with her—she was always visiting Chauncey to play with Alexandra. Now that Byrony and Brent were back, he was certain she would become friends with Byrony.

He had forced himself not to touch her. He couldn't bear it. When he went to bed at night, he was careful to keep his door closed. It was another tangible barrier that kept her safe from him. Even when he woke up during the night, his breathing harsh, his groin aching, he'd see that closed door.

“Jules,” he said suddenly, “are you happy?”

He saw her quiver, but she didn't look up at him.
No, I feel like I'm living a half-life. I'm frightened that Wilkes will take me every time I leave the house. I'm afraid that Wilkes will send men after you.

“Of course,” she said, forcing her head up. He flinched at the haunted look in her eyes, but he didn't know what to do. Dammit, he thought, so frustrated that he wanted to yell. How much longer could they continue living like this? He knew she had to have time, time to forget, to heal, but God, it hurt. He heard himself say in a tight, very controlled voice, “I want you to be happy.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know that you do.”

 

The day before the subscription ball, Thomas DuPres arrived in San Francisco. He looked fit, handsome, and darkly tanned, and Jules didn't want to let him out of her sight. He limped only slightly. Saint, pleased to see his wife laughing, chattering like a
magpie, her face flushed with pleasure, sat back drinking a brandy, watching the two of them. Unlike Jules, Thomas had brownish-red hair and his eyes were brown. But, he saw, they both were possessed of the same stubborn chin.

“I must say, Thomas,” he said during a brief lull in the conversation, “you're looking much better than I thought you would. No more pain?”

“Narry a bit, Saint. Reverend Baldwin gave me a clean bill of health three weeks ago, said my leg was mending just fine, then told me to fatten up before I came here. He said you'd blame him, Saint, if I showed up on your doorstep looking like a scarecrow. Jules,” he continued to his sister, “we've both been disowned by our father, but I didn't think you'd mind particularly.”

“No, not really,” Jules said. “Thomas, is Sarah happy now? Is she all right?”

“If you mean by that is she pregnant,” he said in a hard voice, “the answer is no, she isn't. She is the most godawful female, and now with John Bleecher gone, she's become a total shrew.”

Saint saw that Jules was upset, and said quickly, “Perhaps things will be better for her soon.”

Thomas threw his brother-in-law an incredulous look, but said nothing.

It was nearly midnight when Jules yawned loudly. “Time for you to go to bed, sweetheart,” Saint said, rising with her. “Thomas and I will be up shortly. You can take him about tomorrow.” He gave her a chaste kiss on her cheek. Thomas squeezed her tightly, and held her a moment.

“I'm so glad you're here, Thomas,” she said. “Oh, you'll be in the spare bedroom, second door on your
right upstairs.” With those words, she left the two men alone, one smiling, the other staring after her, the meaning of her words like a death knell in his mind. He'd been an idiot not to realize that Jules would have to move back into his bedroom. He closed his eyes a moment, picturing her in a pristine, virginal nightgown, curled up beside him.

“Saint, you want another brandy?”

He shook his head. Thomas kept him up another hour, discussing medicine. If Thomas noticed that his brother-in-law was distracted, he was polite enough to ignore it.

Please let her be asleep, Saint thought when he very quietly opened the bedroom door. She was, and sprawled in the middle of the bed on her stomach.

He sighed, undressed quickly, and slipped in beside her. Too late he realized he should have worn one of the nightshirts Jane had made for him. She didn't awaken, but before he fell asleep, she was curled up next to him, her slender arm thrown over his chest.