Jo Goodman (19 page)

"You were a regular visitor to the kitchen, weren't you? What about Annie Jack?"

"You only managed to secure Annie's services three days ago," Berkeley reminded him. "And she's been very busy organizing the kitchen the way
she
wants it. Another instance where I've been more in the way, than in the way of help. In any event, Annie Jack isn't certain what to make of me."

Neither was Grey, but he doubted he and his new cook were thinking along the same lines. "What does that mean?"

"She says I'm a spirit woman."

"A what?"

Berkeley shook her head. "You'll have to ask her. She won't explain it to me, but she doesn't allow me near her."

Annie Jack was a Negress of considerable size and substantial spirit herself. He could not imagine that Annie was seriously concerned by Berkeley Shaw. "I'll speak to her," Grey said.

"You can't make her like me," Berkeley told him. Any more than he couldn't make her be less lonely by filling her time with fittings and renovations and cookery. She hadn't recognized these events as anything but Grey Janeway getting on with his business of managing the Phoenix; now she wondered if that were strictly true. He had found no time for her, but he had made certain that others were supposed to.

"I'll speak to her anyway," Grey repeated. He felt her reluctant nod. Apparently she accepted his right to do so, but she didn't have to like it. He doubted she would like what he had to say next. "I've made some inquiries about your father, Berkeley."

She sat straight up, her spine rigid. The blankets covering her shoulders fell to her waist, and she didn't feel the cold at all. His statement robbed her of breath, then of coherent thought. She raised her hand, and for a moment she believed she meant to strike him. She covered her mouth instead.

Grey sat up as well. He took her wrist in his hand and drew it away from her mouth. "You deserved to know. One way or the other."

She drew in a sharp breath, and it became a dry sob. It was not grief that made her cry out, but a deep abiding sense of guilt. She had thought of Anderson Shaw a hundred times since finding herself at the Phoenix and not one of those thoughts was about missing him. Grey hadn't said it yet, but Berkeley knew Anderson was dead. She turned her head and stared back at the city, dry-eyed and almost without expression.

When Grey touched her shoulder she tried to shrug him off. She had no use for his pity. She certainly didn't deserve it. "You can tell me," she said. "I won't cry."

He wished she would. There was some sense to tears. "He's buried in a graveyard usually reserved for Sydney Town felons," he said. "The story isn't clear. Some say he was a victim from the beginning. Some say he started the fight. He didn't have a chance once he wandered into that part of town. Your father must have given a good account of himself. It's the reason people remembered his name."

"I want to see his grave," she said.

Grey was shaking his head before she finished. "You can't go there."

"You can take me. The Ducks don't bother you. If I'm under your protection, they won't bother me."

"The Ducks bother me. They haven't figured how to get rid of me. There's a difference." He watched Berkeley shift toward him. She was hugging herself under his jacket now, and he drew it more closely around her shoulders. She was not arguing with him, but Grey didn't mistake her silence for surrender. He understood the problem he had just created for himself by telling her the truth about her father.

"Did you bring me up here to tell me?" she asked.

"No. I didn't think I was going to tell you at all tonight. I didn't expect to see you."

"How long have you known about him?"

"Since this afternoon. You had already eaten dinner and were in your room when I got back. I was prepared to tell you in the morning."

It didn't matter that she wished he had told her earlier. Her reasons were entirely selfish ones. Anderson had found a way, even in death, to deny her a single evening's peace.

"Berkeley?" Grey's voice prompted her to look at him again. "Is there no one at all you can go to?"

She shook her head and pushed back strands of hair that brushed her cheek. Being alone was usually different than being lonely. Tonight they felt very much the same. "No one," she said.

"But your letter—"

Berkeley didn't allow him to finish. "It was to a business acquaintance of my father's. I can't expect help there." She leaned back. Beneath the blankets her shoulders were slumped. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth and comfort. "It no longer matters where I am; I have nowhere to go."

"Then there's no urgency for you to leave San Francisco."

"None at all," she said a little dully.

Grey wondered at her answer. "Berkeley?"

"Hmmm?"

"Were you trying to get away from your father?"

She didn't look at him, but stared straight ahead. "Yes."

"But you suspected he was dead."

"I did, but it's not the same as knowing."

And as long as she wasn't certain, Grey realized, she had her sights set on leaving. The importance she placed on seeing her father's grave was clearer to him now. He also understood why she had not been overly disturbed by her virtual confinement in the Phoenix these past four weeks. He realized why she had felt safe in the hotel. "You've been hiding from him," Grey said.

"You're supposing that he wanted to find me. He left me, not the other way around." Berkeley let her head fall back against the cushion and closed her eyes. "But there's truth in what you say. I was panicked at first, not knowing where he was or what I would do without him; then I managed it. More importantly, I realized I was managing it."

"By dressing in a man's clothing?" he asked. "Bathing in the bay? Sleeping in the streets? That's your idea of managing?"

"It's my idea of surviving. I did it on my own. You can't know what that meant to me."

Grey thought he did know. He said nothing for a long time. While silence filled the passing minutes he stared at her, trying to make out the features of her upturned face. It wasn't composure that he observed in her expression, but exhaustion. Then there was the tear he saw slip from between her closed lashes. She made no effort to brush it away, almost as if she was denying its existence. Grey leaned toward her and raised his hand. His fingers hovered just above her cheek, then he brushed her face with the lightest of touches.

He wondered if she knew how often his thoughts were occupied with her, or how often his eyes strayed from any task at hand to observe her. Since her arrival he had had his men stepping lively to see to her personal needs and comfort, and what he noticed was that none of them complained. Even Sam Hartford, who had made noises about not wanting to be involved in furbelows and geegaws, took up Berkeley's standard after he saw her in one of Ivory's gowns. Donnel, Mike, Shawn, and half a dozen others were no different. The special attention that was given to Berkeley's suite was initiated by him, but fulfilled by everyone else. When Grey saw the manner in which they cheerfully carried out his instructions he realized they were all looking for excuses to spend time with her.

He was no different. He only held himself back.

Until now. His fingertips touched her cheek, and he felt the damp evidence of her tears. She didn't stir. "Berkeley?"

Her eyes opened. They glistened. Another tear fell. It didn't matter if she had his permission or not, she did not want to cry in front of him. "Can we go now, Mr. Janeway?"

His hand dropped to her throat. His fingers slipped behind the nape of her neck and his thumb brushed the underside of her chin. "Grey," he said. "I think you'd better start calling me Grey."

She didn't question him. At this moment she wasn't even curious why he should say that. "I'd like to go home."

He didn't press her. Instead he tucked her in beside him and sheltered her with one arm. He took up the reins in his free hand, and, with a flick of his wrist, the carriage began to roll forward slowly. Berkeley Shaw was asleep by the time they reached the Phoenix.

* * *

The morning was shrouded with fog. It suited Berkeley's mood and her movements. When she unbarred the gaming house's door and stepped onto the sidewalk, the whole of Portsmouth Square was swallowed by the thick, damp mist. Diffuse light from an invisible sun made it possible for her to see a few feet beyond each step she took. Behind her the fog closed like a curtain, removing every trace of her path.

Berkeley's shoes tapped out a light staccato beat as she hurried along the rough wooden sidewalk. Confident that she could pass unobserved because of the fog, she did not try to keep her head down or shade her face with the hat she wore. Wearing the clothes she had never returned to Grey, Berkeley knew that a passing glance would only mark her as one of the last of the city's late-night revelers.

Venturing into Sydney Town was not something Berkeley would have done in broad daylight. Night was certainly no safer. But a San Francisco morning, with its lowering clouds from the bay as thick as cotton batting, presented itself as the perfect time. The shanties and tents, the clapboard hovels and crudely built gaming hells, were clustered near the waterfront and rose up the slope of Telegraph Hill.

It was toward the hill that Berkeley made her way. Her progress was slowed by the deeply rutted street and the occasional drunkard or brawler staggering out from one of the saloons. The area was quiet, almost eerily so. She was aware of her own breathing and the soft rustle of her clothes as her arms brushed her sides. Water splashed loudly as she stepped into a puddle, and she picked up her pace to get away from the sound.

Berkeley didn't know the precise location of Sydney Town's cemetery and doubted that it was connected to anything remotely resembling a church. She had, however, once observed an unruly group of mourners following a hearse on the outskirts of Sydney Town, and she took that same direction now.

She came upon the cemetery literally by accident as she tripped over stones that marked the entrance. Hastily she replaced the stones in something resembling a pyramid and righted the wooden cross that had landed on its side the same time she did.

The fog that had served to cloak Berkeley's journey from the Phoenix now worked against her. There were no granite slabs to indicate where a body was buried, and the crosses were difficult to see except when she was standing beside them. Some of the graves were marked only with stones arranged in a pile similar to the one at the entrance. Crouching low, Berkeley worked her way through the rows of graves more by feel than by sight.

Sydney Town's cemetery was populated by men who bore an odd assortment of names when they had been among the living. There was Luckless Bill, English Joe, One-Chance Charlie, and Eddie Smiles. Berkeley found wooden crosses with names as plain as Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones burned into them. Seldom were dates revealed. More often she found the manner of death. Gunshot in the back. Hanged. Drowned. Demon Rum. Sometimes the crime was noted. Card cheat. Liar. Traitor.

Berkeley shivered and pulled her jacket more closely around her shoulders. The Sydney Ducks apparently had their own code. Murdering others could be forgiven. Betraying a fellow Duck was a death sentence. Immoral or amoral, it didn't matter. It was what they lived and died by.

Anderson Shaw. Berkeley's fingers trembled when she reached out to touch the cross. It leaned a little to the side, and she straightened it. It inclined again as soon as she let it go.

She mounded some dirt at its base and pushed it deeper in place. The cross was no better made, but no worse than any of the others. No information about the manner of his death was burned into the wood; nothing to indicate if he was sinner or saint in the eyes of the Ducks.

Around the edge of the grave the grass was wet. Berkeley sat down anyway, crossing her legs tailor-fashion. She plucked a piece of long grass and chewed on the end while her eyes remained riveted on the marker. It must be true, she thought, and still she could not believe what she was seeing. Berkeley would not have been surprised at all if Anderson had simply materialized out of the mist. She could imagine him standing just behind her, his hand pressing into the small of her back, his knuckle digging sharply into her spine. He would incline his head toward her and make a comment that only she could hear. Other people would remark on his solicitousness. Only she would know the truth.

When she had set out this morning Berkeley's head had been filled with things she wanted to say to Anderson; now it was curiously blank. Nothing came to mind. She wasn't angry or bitter or triumphant. Guilt and shame no longer bore down on her. There had never been any real sadness, only fear, and that, too, was receding. She was no longer prompted to speak by any thoughts of hurting or insulting him. Words that she couldn't have imagined saying to him when he was alive had occurred to her earlier. Now she remained silent.

Peace was unfamiliar to her, and the irony for Berkeley was that at the moment she felt it, recognized it, and tried to embrace it, she was also disquieted by it. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugged them, and rocked gently back and forth. She hummed softly, a song her mother had sung to her, and when the tears finally came they were because her own arms were small comfort when the ones she wanted were her mother's.