Jo Goodman (13 page)

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"It's for your privacy."

"I don't understand. You can just as easily shut the door on your way out."

"I could," he said. "If I intended to go out. Stay where you are. There's no need to scatter water to every part of the room. I intend to talk to you, and we can't have a conversation if there's a closed door between us. I thought this would be an acceptable compromise."

"It's not."

"It's the best I can do."

"A compromise would be for you to allow me to bathe alone and engage in conversation later."

"Yes, but that wouldn't be acceptable to me." Ignoring her bewildered expression, Grey finished attaching the rope and tied two corners of the sheet to it. The curtain partitioned off the area of the room where Berkeley sat in the tub. "No one will be bringing more hot water," he told her. "You'd do well to get out of those clothes now."

"I don't think I can."

Grey had to strain to hear her. Berkeley's voice was barely audible. "I'll strip them off you myself," he said. Grey realized that her modesty, if that's what it was, was unexpected. It hadn't occurred to him that she would offer so much resistance over such a trifle. Hadn't she told him that she would have been willing to bathe in the bay? And she had already been walking around San Francisco for weeks wearing trousers. That behavior, even though it had probably been born of necessity, didn't impress Grey as modest. "I mean it, Miss Shaw." He paused. "Your alternative is to leave. And the cat goes with you."

There was a long silence; then Grey heard her sigh. That breathy little sound was followed by some wet piece of clothing slapping against the floor. Satisfied, Grey sat on the trunk and waited. One piece followed another. Occasionally there was a soft grunt as an article proved difficult to get out of. "Finished?" he asked her when he thought she had lowered herself into the water again. There was no answer. "If you're nodding, Miss Shaw, I can't hear you."

"Yes," she said. "I'm finished."

"Then I'm going to take your clothes."

Berkeley went under the water to the level of her nose. It was an unnecessary precaution. Grey didn't come around the curtain; he merely reached under it. She watched what was left of her belongings disappear. Except for the earring she was clutching in her palm, she had nothing.

Grey wasn't gone long, but Berkeley didn't doubt she would never see those clothes again. She imagined they were burning in the same stove that had been used to heat her water.

"I don't hear anything," Grey said. "Have you finished washing?"

"I haven't begun."

"Do you require help?"

Berkeley sat up and examined the earring in her hand. She placed it carefully over the side of the tub and took up the washcloth and soap. "No," she said, resigned. "I don't require help."

"Good. I don't know anything about being a lady's maid."

Berkeley let the comment pass. She applied herself to her bath, permitting herself to experience some pleasure in the fact that she would finally be clean.

Grey sat on the trunk again and stretched out his legs in front of him. "Where are you from, Miss Shaw?"

"Baltimore." It was the last place she lived, so there was truth in that. Anderson had always taught her not to stray far from the truth. Lies were easily found out. "I was born in Charleston." She didn't mention that she had spent her first six years growing up there. "What about you, Mr. Janeway? Where are you from?"

"All over." He crossed his arms in front of him. "How did you get to San Francisco?"

"I came on a Remington clipper in June. We crossed at Panama, and another packet brought us here."

"We?"

"I meant me and the other passengers."

"I don't believe for a moment that you traveled here unescorted. Who brought you?"

Berkeley's hand faltered. The soap slipped out from under the cloth, and she had to make a grab to recover it before it floated away. "My father," she said.

"Where is he now?"

"I... I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No," she said. "I don't. You really don't have the right to do this, Mr. Janeway. Or are you going to tell me I can go if I don't answer your questions?"

"I was thinking about it," he said dryly.

Berkeley began soaping her hair. She raised a little lather and scrubbed hard at her scalp. "He deserted me, Mr. Janeway," she said. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Was he a miner?"

"He thought he could be. It was all he talked about, getting to San Francisco to try his hand at a claim. He bought a parcel of land before we left Baltimore."

Grey had heard of men coming to the Sierra Nevada foothills thinking they already had a stake in an active mine. If the parcel existed, it was played out. Most men discovered the same parcel had been sold three or four times over if they could find it at all. "Did you go with him to find the claim?"

"Yes." Berkeley closed her eyes. She did not want to think about it. She certainly did not want to talk about it. Reaching over the side of the tub, Berkeley managed to pull one of the rinsing buckets toward her. It was more of a struggle to lift and pour, but she was enormously satisfied when she could ignore Grey's offer to help and do the thing herself.

"How long has he been missing?" Grey asked when the splashing quieted.

"A month."

"You left the mining camp to try to find him yourself?"

"Not immediately. I waited for him as he told me to do, but it wasn't safe. There were other miners. They came around too often. I think some of them suspected I wasn't my father's son."

So she had been masquerading as a boy even then. Berkeley's father had a lot to answer for. Grey had seen firsthand how gold fever could scramble a man's common sense and reasoning ability. "Why didn't you stay in Baltimore?"

"There was no one there. My mother died when I was sixteen. That's when I mar—" She stopped, realizing what she had been about to say.

"Yes?" Grey asked. "That's when you what?"

"When I made the decision to take care of my father."

"I thought we already established that you need a keeper, Miss Shaw. I can hardly credit you were the one looking after your father."

"You may believe me or not, Mr. Janeway. I won't try to persuade you."

Grey unfolded his arms and leaned forward. "Why did your father come back to the city?" he asked.

"Supplies," she said. Again, there was some truth in that. Anderson had also been interested in whoring and had minced no words in telling her. "I think he had some idea that he might go to the land office and recover his money. Not that it really matters. He left me behind, and I haven't heard from him." She hesitated. "I suspect he's dead."

Grey suspected precisely the same thing. "What now, Miss Shaw?"

"What do you mean?"

"How will you manage? You were eager to get on the Remington ship this morning, but you seemed almost as satisfied to pass on your letter. How important is it to you to leave San Francisco?"

"There is nothing more important," she said. "But as you pointed out, I need money."

"And your letter was about getting money?"

"Not at all. There's no one who's going to send me funds." That was entirely the truth. She could not imagine that any one of the Thornes would be moved to send her money. The passage of time would have had them questioning what they had seen in their own parlor. How much could they really trust her? they would be wondering. Their doubts had probably begun the moment she and Anderson had disappeared. The correspondence from San Francisco could only alleviate a few fears. Berkeley picked up the earring and laid it across her palm. She stared at it a moment before her fingers closed around it.

Decker Thorne had challenged her to make the right choice during his final test. Berkeley wasn't certain she had. The Thornes weren't likely to come to her aid.

"Are you finished, Miss Shaw?"

There was an edge of impatience in his voice that let Berkeley know it wasn't the first time Grey Janeway had asked the question. "I only need to dry now," she said. She raised herself out of the water and toweled off her hair, careful not to lose the earring. "Has Mr. Hartford returned with clothes for me?"

"No," Grey said. He extended his arm around the edge of the curtain and held out his own hunter green dressing gown. "You can put this on until he arrives."

Berkeley finished drying quickly, stepped out of the tub, and took the satin dressing gown. She knew it was going to be yards too big for her, but she didn't care. The material only caressed her skin. The sleeves slipped fluidly down her arms, and when she belted the gown at the waist it was as if she had wrapped herself in a cool waterfall.

Berkeley dropped the earring into the pocket of the robe and stepped around the curtain. Her arms were folded protectively under her breasts, and she didn't quite know where to look. She could feel Grey Janeway's eyes moving over her, and she willed herself not to blush or stammer. He made her feel young in a way she never had been.

"May I have a comb?" she asked.

Seeing her now, Grey wondered that she had been successful so long in her street-urchin masquerade. Berkeley Shaw was still a bit of a thing—the crown of her head would fit neatly under his chin—but there was no denying that she was female. Her face was heart-shaped, her generous mouth sweetly curved, and there was a provocative slant to the fathomless green eyes. Her eyebrows, arched in a delicate curve, were a few shades darker than her gold-and-platinum hair, but her lashes were darker yet and shaded eyes that were already a deep mystery to him.

Her neck was a slender stem. He could make out the pulse beating at the base of her throat. She held her narrow shoulders straight now as her arms fell to her sides. He could see that she was trying not to tug on the overlong sleeves of his gown, trying not to show that she was bothered by his scrutiny. She had pulled the robe tightly across her chest. In her effort not to expose any of her fair skin, she had emphasized the swell of her breasts. The nipples were hard beneath the fabric, their thrust plainly visible.

Her waist was tiny and higher than he would have thought given her earlier attire. She had worn the trousers low, and the flannel shirt hadn't revealed the slender line of her body or the true length of her legs. A bare foot peeped out from beneath the hem. The toes wiggled.

Grey smiled slightly. He was familiar with that foot. Everything else was a revelation.

"A comb?" she asked again.

"I heard you the first time."

Which meant, Berkeley supposed, that he simply wasn't going to give her one until he was ready.

Grey stood, opened the trunk, and found a comb and a brush.

As an afterthought he also handed her his mirror. She took all three items eagerly and fled immediately into the empty bedroom. Grey followed at a more leisurely pace. He stood just inside the doorway and leaned against the wall. Berkeley had already pushed the sleeping cat out of the shaft of sunlight and taken the same position for herself on the window seat. Damp and tangled, her hair was a gossamer halo about her head. The pale threads reflected sunlight.

Berkeley put down the brush and mirror but kept the comb. She began working it through her hair, starting at the ends. She was very much aware that Grey's eyes hadn't left her. "You must have something else to do," she said, sparing him a glance.

"I can't think of anything."

"I wish you wouldn't stare."

"You have to be used to it. You must know you're a beautiful woman."

Berkeley didn't flush. She thought the compliment too outrageous to take seriously. "I know nothing of the kind, Mr. Janeway." Still, she was used to being watched. Anderson did it all the time, though not in precisely the same way as Grey. It was very much as if she had acquired a keeper after all. What she didn't know any longer was how she felt about it.

Grey watched Berkeley's fingers move deftly through her hair. There was a graceful sweep to her hands that wasn't practiced or planned. The movement was as hypnotically soothing as the rise and fall of the tides. He had no intention of looking away.

"May I ask you a question?" Berkeley said.

"Of course."

"This morning... at the wharf... how did you know I wasn't a boy?"

Grey's flinty stare easily stopped Berkeley's hand and pinned her just where she sat.

"Are you certain you want to know?" he asked flatly.

She thought she did when she asked the question. Now she wasn't as sure. "Yes."

"I didn't know immediately, if it's any consolation. I didn't know when you were darting back and forth along the dock. When you were flinging fish at the Ducks I still had no idea. But after you came running at me and attached yourself to my back like a—"

"Limpet?" she suggested. It sounded so much nicer than barnacle.

"Leech," he corrected. "Just like a leech. It was then that two particularly interesting things about your anatomy became known to me."

"You mean my—" She broke off and merely looked down at herself. The slippery material of the dressing gown had parted, and the gap gave her an unrestricted view.