Jo Goodman (38 page)

Berkeley darted Grey an uncertain glance. He was staring straight ahead, unmoved in any outward way by what he had experienced. He was pretending as though he didn't know he had just shared her premonition, yet he was fairly vibrating with the force of what she felt. The heartbeat she heard in her ears wasn't only her own. Grey's blood seemed to thrum through her veins.

The minister was speaking to her. She saw his mouth opening and closing with crisp precision, but Berkeley could not make out a single word or any sense of the whole. Every sound reached her vaguely distorted. Panic and dread were tangible forces that roiled through her. The knot in her stomach went as high as her throat and lodged there.

She felt Grey's eyes on her, and when she looked at him she saw that his expression was merely expectant. He didn't seem afraid. He wasn't accusing or concerned. There was a hint of a smile about his mouth that was both indulgent and encouraging. Berkeley wondered that he could project such a calm presence when she was on the verge of collapse.

The Reverend Amos Watkins shifted his spindly frame and his attention to Grey. Berkeley swayed a little on her feet as her hand was being lifted. Nat was there suddenly, extending his own hand, dangling a ring between his thumb and forefinger. He was looking up at her, his mouth set in a solemn smile befitting the occasion. Berkeley's glimpse of him was brief as he ducked behind Grey again. The gold ring in Grey's hand was left to mark the completion of his duty.

Grey spoke to her as he slipped the band over her finger. Out of the corner of her eye Berkeley saw the minister nod approvingly. In the other direction Donnel, Sam, and Shawn were grinning while Annie Jack clutched her handkerchief.

It was over with a kiss. Or perhaps it had begun with one. Berkeley couldn't be sure. She found herself in the circle of Grey's arms, and his head was being lowered while her face was raised. His mouth was gentle on hers, reverent and somehow very sweet. When he drew back she was aware her vision of him was not quite as clear as before, that his features shimmered in and out of focus, and that he seemed to waver on his feet. It was the first she understood that her eyes were wet with tears.

Grey found a scrap of linen and lace folded neatly beneath the fitted wrist of Berkeley's gown. "Something old?" he asked, pressing it into her hand.

She gave him a watery smile. "Something new. A gift from Annie." Berkeley dabbed at her eyes and tucked the handkerchief away before turning to face the witnesses. Sam's eyes looked suspiciously wet, and Shawn was blinking rapidly. Donnel Kincaid's fiery brows were drawn together, and he was staring at the floor.

Annie Jack stepped out of the semicircle and wrapped her arms around Berkeley. "This only proves Annie was right all along about your powers," she said. "You put a spell on Mr. Janeway pure and simple. You'll never convince Annie it was anythin' else."

"I wouldn't try."

Grey was still chuckling when Annie took his hand and pumped it fiercely. "Mark my words, Mr. Janeway. You do right by your wife or there will be hell to pay. Pardon Annie's cussin', Reverend, but some things got to be said so there's no mistakin' their meaning."

"I understand, Annie." Grey drew back his hand and laid it lightly on her shoulder. He kissed her on the cheek and brought a flush to her coffee-colored skin.

"Mind yourself," she said, wagging a finger at him. "Annie don't want trouble with Miz Berkeley herself."

When Annie stepped aside the others moved forward, offering kisses and congratulations, and in the case of Sam Hartford, an approving aside about Berkeley's wedding finery. Only Nat hung back. He had seen Pandora slinking along the foot rail during the ceremony and at his earliest opportunity he had cornered her. Now he stood by the mahogany bar clutching the cat and wondering if he could put any stock in what Grey Janeway had told him that morning.

Berkeley made a subtle gesture with her chin and eyes in Nat's direction. Grey followed it and saw the boy leaning against the bar pretending to enjoy holding the squirming, clawing cat in his arms. Separating himself from the gathering around Berkeley, Grey walked over to Nat.

"I think you saved the day," Grey said. "Remembering the ring
and
keeping Pandora from destroying Berkeley's gown."

Nat's head lifted. "You think so?"

"Oh, I'm certain of it. The cat's been eyeing Miss Shaw like she's a saucer of cream."

Nat's eyes darted toward Berkeley. The seed pearls in her bodice glowed. "She's a bucket of it, sir."

"Exactly." Grey gingerly separated cat from boy. "Perhaps you could go over there and wish her happy. I'll keep Pandora away from all that satin and lace froth." He gave Nat an encouraging nod and watched the boy trot off obediently before he released Pandora up the stairs. By the time he rejoined the group Nat was looking quite cheerfully at ease at Berkeley's side. Grey found himself satisfied with that.

Annie Jack and her assistants had prepared a wedding supper for the bride and groom and selected guests and a feast for all the well-wishers who would come when the Phoenix opened its doors that evening. Roast beef, salmon, trout, golden potato medallions, carrots, peas, and mushrooms, sourdough rolls, salads and sauces and raspberry ices were carried out and laid along the length of the bar and replenished by a parade of servers. The gaming house was transformed into a banquet hall with a fountain of punch which no one touched and a dozen kegs of beer that were tapped out before midnight.

There was no one who wasn't welcome at the Phoenix. Berkeley and Grey, with Nat beside them, greeted everyone who came through the wide double doors. Some came with the express intention of extending their best wishes, others because word that drinks were on the house and all bets were off was a message difficult to resist. The music was lively and the dancing was energetic. The women in attendance never lacked for partners. Neither did Nat. Twice Berkeley made Grey rescue him from the crush of generous breasts. It was when she sent him into the fray a third time that Grey escorted the tired but very happy boy up to his room and tucked him in for the night.

"Buckets of cream," Nat whispered sleepily as he turned on his side. "Every one of them."

Grey chuckled softly and drew the covers over Nat's shoulders. "Exactly," he agreed. Grey looked down at his feet when he felt the familiar press of fur against his legs. He scooped Pandora up, scratched her under the neck, then placed her on the bed beside Nat. She nestled in the crook of the boy's thin arm and gave Grey a look that said she was in charge now.

Berkeley was no longer among the hundreds of guests in the gaming hall when Grey returned. He felt her absence almost immediately. He stood on the stairs, scanning the swirling figures on the dance floor, the throngs at the bar, the press of bodies near the entrance, and she was at the center of none of them. He looked for her in the kitchen and on the back porch. He offered to bring up a case of liquor from the basement simply to have an excuse to look for her there.

No one seemed to realize she was missing, or at least no one offered to tell him where she had gone. Grey stepped outside the Phoenix and into the open courtyard of Portsmouth Square. The night was unusually warm for so late in the year but Grey saw men walking with their shoulders hunched and collars lifted as if they were experiencing something far different.

Grey stood on the lip of the sidewalk while his eyes moved around the square. In the moonlight Berkeley's gown would have shone like a beacon. She hadn't come this way to remove herself from the heat and stale air of the gaming hall. Still, he stepped off the sidewalk and began walking away from the Phoenix, drawn toward the center of the square by something he could neither identify nor define. It was only when he reached the middle and realized that, indeed, there was nothing there that he turned and finally saw what he was seeking.

Berkeley stood on the balcony outside his sitting room. Her arms were braced on the balustrade, and she leaned forward, her posture a mix of anticipation and defiance. Her hair had been released from the pearl-encrusted combs and was lifted on the back of a warm breeze.

She could have been Rhea, the exquisitely lovely and proud figurehead of the
Lady Jane Grey.

His heart tripped again when he saw her move away from the balustrade. It was everything he had felt when he took her hand at the beginning of the wedding ceremony, and ten times more. Blood roared in his ears, and his heartbeat slammed against his chest. He began running toward the Phoenix, his breathing labored even before he hit his stride. It took him minutes longer to make his way back through the crowd once he was in the hall. Now it seemed that everyone knew he was trying to get to Berkeley, and they all thought they knew why. Grey had no choice but to accept their good-natured teasing and suggestions about how he should proceed with his wedding night. His progress to the staircase was marked by improvised percussion. Hands solidly clapped his back, and glasses of beer were thumped loudly on tabletops. Miners applied their large boots rhythmically against the floor in a foot-stomping serenade that vibrated the hall.

The Phoenix erupted into enthusiastic applause when Grey finally reached the top of the stairs. He did not stop to acknowledge it.

The warm breeze that had met him in Portsmouth Square now circulated through his apartment. The balcony doors were wide-open. Drapes fluttered at the windows on either side. Lamplight flickered. A small, mostly ornamental fire had been laid in the grate. Slim fingers of orange-and-yellow flames wound around the kindling. They almost disappeared until the night air breathed life into them again.

Grey closed the door behind him. The drapes, the lamplight, the fingers of flame all stilled. Then Berkeley was there, in the center of the balcony, framed by the open doors as if she had been captured on canvas.

He went to her.

His worst fears were realized when she took a step back.

"Berkeley." His voice was hoarse and almost without sound. She did not regard him with the wariness she would have reserved for a stranger, but with the contempt that was due a liar. "I can explain."

"Who are you?"

"Please. Come inside. We can talk there."

She ignored him and stayed her ground. "I've seen Rhea. I've seen the inscription below her. You should have had it sanded away when you brought her here. It's too obvious to be a mere coincidence." She gathered the slender threads of her composure and asked him again, "So tell me, who
are
you?"

"Grey Janeway."

Berkeley took another step backward, unsatisfied with his answer. Her thighs struck the heavy stone balustrade, and she was brought up short. Her eyes darted to her left, and she pointed to the ship's figurehead mounted not far from the edge of the balcony. "It's from the ship where you were born," she said.

"Yes. I told you that."

"But not all of it. You were being evasive and clever when you said that. You didn't tell me
when
you were born."

He told her now. "Five and a half years ago." Grey reached for her, but she twisted sideways and eluded his outstretched arm. He made no attempt to follow when she went toward the figurehead.

Moonlight lent Rhea's perfect features a blue cast. She could have been sculpted in granite, not wood. Berkeley gave her back to Grey and turned toward the goddess. She was careful not to look down as she stretched out over the balustrade and touched one of Rhea's curving locks. Her fingers slipped across the warm, smoothly polished shoulder. Berkeley's eyes fell to the ornate script carved below the figurehead's breasts. It was not the goddess's name, but the name of the ship that had carried her.

Lady Jane Grey.

Berkeley let her arm fall back and she stepped away from the rail. She didn't turn to look at Grey, but she knew he was just behind her now. "Grey Janeway is a name," she said quietly. "Not who you are."

"Then you have no cause to be angry with me. You know who I am."

She shook her head. "You deceived me."

"No, I didn't. Or at least no more than I've deceived myself."

"You're Graham Denison."

"It's only a name."

Berkeley hugged herself. Cornered, her back still to him, she had nowhere to go when Grey's fingers lightly traced the curve of her bare shoulder. "Why couldn't you tell me?" she whispered. "You let me think you murdered him. Why did it have to be a secret?"

Grey's hand slipped under the silky fall of her hair. His thumb rubbed gently up and down her sensitive nape. He felt tension cord the slender muscles in her neck. "Because I don't know the truth of it myself," he said. "If I was Graham Denison, he has nothing to do with my life now." He eased her around and now his thumb pressed upward on the thrust of her small chin. "Do you understand, Berkeley? I didn't tell you because I don't know if it's true, and if it's true, it doesn't matter."

"How can that be?"

Grey could tell she wanted to believe him. Her eyes were wide and clear as she stared up at him. It was her mouth that hinted at her misgivings. It trembled. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. There was more promise than substance in the kiss, but it was enough. He felt her still. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she breathed softly and evenly. When he drew back her face was raised and her eyes were closed.

"Come inside," he said. "Please."