Jo Goodman (42 page)

"It was the way you said it. It came out so naturally, as if it were familiar to you. I've never thought of him as anyone but Graham. Captain Thorne didn't call him Gray."

"Then he probably wasn't the friend you suspect he was. He has very selfish reasons for wanting to find me."

Berkeley smoothed the small vertical crease between Grey's brows. She wished she had not been so quick to turn back the lamps. She wanted to see his face more clearly. "Have you remembered something?" she asked.

"No," he said firmly. "And I'm not likely to. Ever. You shouldn't expect differently. But I've been thinking for some time that it's likely I'm Gray Denison. You were so certain I'd killed him, and I realized that I probably had, but not in the way you thought. He's dead to me, Berkeley. He can't help the Thornes or anyone else. He can't help himself."

Berkeley ruffled his hair gently, then smoothed it again. "He has a family," she said. "The Denisons are well-known and highly regarded. Anderson learned all about them before we ever met the Thornes. Joel Denison is the family's patriarch. By all accounts your grandfather is a hard taskmaster and set in his ways. Anne-Marie was his wife. She died three years ago. I was led to believe that Graham was her particular favorite."

Grey closed his eyes. There was no relief for the dull, incessant roar in his ears. "My parents? Do I have brothers and sisters," he asked with no inflection.

"A brother. Garret, I think. Your father is James and your mother is Evaline."

The names meant nothing to him, but he was aware of a deepening ache behind his eyes. "Falconer's activities must have been an embarrassment to them."

"Yes. That seems likely. They're slave owners. Beau Rivage has always had slaves. It couldn't have been easy for them to learn that Graham was working with the Underground."

"You said Graham disappeared in Philadelphia."

"That's right. From the
Siren."

"But
Jane Grey's
last port of call was Charleston. What would I have been doing there?"

"Perhaps you didn't go there willingly," she said. "Or perhaps you did and encountered problems when you arrived. We can't know that without knowing who attacked you."

Grey's short laugh held no humor. "It seems that anyone who found fault with Falconer's work would have had reason. Was there a reward for him?"

Berkeley found it odd how Grey distanced himself from Falconer. He could accept that he was probably Graham Denison, but not that it made him Falconer. "There was money offered by different slaveholders, but it wasn't generally made public. What you did was against the law. You didn't have Northern sympathizers to protect you after you left Boston. Going South at all was a risk. Returning to Charleston was dangerous." Her fingers threaded through his dark hair. "But then you know that firsthand."

"Apparently so." Grey eased himself off Berkeley's lap. He turned on his side and accepted the pillow she slipped under his head. "It's easier to understand why no one in my family mounted a search. They didn't want me found."

"Grey," Berkeley said quietly, "you don't know that."

"No, you listen to me now. Perhaps not looking for me was for my own protection, but there's no escaping the fact that dead or alive I could only bring more shame to them. It was better for my family that I was simply forgotten. The real question for me is one of motive. If I really did act to help slaves move along the Underground, was I acting on my convictions or out of revenge?"

Berkeley frowned. "Why would you think it was revenge? Why must you judge your character in the poorest light?"

"Because evil is often done by men with good intentions and apparently selfless acts can be rooted in profoundly selfish motives. I believe something provoked me to disregard my family's interests and take up an abolitionist's cause."

"Graham Denison had a great respect for freedom."

"So does Grey Janeway. Especially his own. I'm not eager to lose it. I want to give this matter of Decker and Colin Thorne some thought." He waited until Berkeley stretched out beside him before he continued. "I'll speak to Nat myself, and I'll decide what's to be done from there. Can you accept that?"

Berkeley fingered the earring pendant around her throat. "Your headache's better, isn't it?"

He realized suddenly that it had almost completely vanished. "Yes." He waited, thinking she intended to move him from his purpose. He was mildly surprised when she answered his earlier question.

"I can accept that you want time to think about these things," she said. "But I know something about Grey Janeway myself. I suspect he acts with a bit more nobility of purpose than he would like anyone to believe."

"Then you continue to deceive yourself."

"You saved me at the wharf," she pointed out.

"I thought you were a child."

"You took me in."

"I realized you were a woman."

"Pandora?"

He shrugged. "You seemed to have some affection for her. I was still trying to get in your good graces."

"You put Mike on my trail to watch over me."

"By that time I was trying to get into your bed."

"You arranged for his care and passage home."

"I sent him away because I thought he entertained a certain affection for you. I was jealous."

Berkeley's eyes widened a little. She wondered if she could believe him when he was bent on making her see him in a different light. "What about Nat?"

"Would you be with me now if I had turned Nathaniel Corbett away?" He found her hand and drew it toward him. "I only want you to understand that I don't act out of selflessness."

Berkeley fell silent, considering that. "What about Ivory DuPree?" she asked, suddenly inspired.

"What about her?"

"Hank Brock was injured not long after you found out he'd raped her."

"Do you believe taking the matter into my own hands was somehow high-minded or moral? It was neither. There are courts to pass judgment, Berkeley. I acted with the same disregard for their justice as Sam Brannan's vigilantes. And I despise their methods. It was chivalrous perhaps, dangerous certainly, and it was wrong. Given the same circumstances, I would do it again."

Berkeley raised his hand toward her mouth. She kissed his knuckles. "I can accept that," she said quietly.

* * *

Grey picked up a deck of cards lying on the gaming table in front of him and began to cut them. The ace of spades appeared on the first cut. He closed the deck and cut again. This time he revealed the ace of hearts. The third cut showed the ace of diamonds. It was only on the fourth cut that he missed finding an ace. He had to go behind Nat's ear to bring out the club.

Nat's jaw slackened a bit in amazement. "I want to learn that, Mr. Janeway."

Grey glanced sideways at Berkeley. She had Nat's lessons spread out in front of him. There was a slate of sums, a map of Europe, and Irving's "Rip van Winkle."

"Some other time," he said, pocketing the cards. "You have these lessons first." It was difficult not to be sympathetic to Nat's disappointment. The best he could do was postpone them a little longer. "Is there nothing else you can tell us about the men?" he asked. "Are you certain you've remembered everything?"

Nat's pale brows came together in a parody of concentration. He was willing to think on it all day if it kept him from doing sums. "I think I should be excused from lessons to consider it," he said seriously. "It's hard to recall things when you're expected to name all the capitals of places you've never been and ain't likely to get to."

"And are not likely to visit," Berkeley said, correcting him. She looked at Grey, who was not being entirely successful at keeping his grin in check. "You can't possibly have any more questions for him. I'm satisfied that neither of the men asking after the earring is Decker or Colin Thorne."

"I'm satisfied on that count," Grey admitted. "But Nat hasn't provided enough detail to identify who they might be."

"And he can't. He's too young to establish their ages with any certainty. You heard him. He thinks you're forty-one." She smiled sweetly when Grey winced at that reminder. She couldn't resist adding, "And Sam, who's twenty-five years older than you, he thinks is forty-two."

Grey picked up the slate and passed it to Nat. "Write down thirty and add twenty-five. That will give you Sam's age." He chuckled at Nat's disheartened expression. "I take your point," he said, turning back to Berkeley. She was looking at him oddly. His grin disappeared. "What is it? What did I do?"

"You know how old you are," she said. "How can that be? Or was it a guess on your part?"

Grey sat back himself, struck by what he had said now that it was pointed out to him. "It wasn't a guess," he said slowly. "I'm thirty years old. My birthday was in May. The eleventh. I was born in 1820."

"Sam is fifty-five," Nat said helpfully, showing his slate work. When both adults merely nodded absently in his direction he checked his addition.

"Grey." Berkeley said his name softly, her voice awed. "You've remembered something." She came out of her chair and around the gaming table. She brushed his temple with her fingertips and examined his features for some sign that he was suffering. "Is there pain? Does your head hurt at all?"

Nat slid his slate onto the table. "I'm feeling a bit peculiar," he said, looking hopefully from Berkeley to Grey.

Berkeley's attention shifted briefly. "You may be excused, Nat. Find Sam and tell him to keep you out of trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," Nat said cheerfully. He almost tipped his chair over in his eagerness to be gone from the table.

Berkeley was pulled onto Grey's lap as soon as they were alone. "Are you quite all right?"

He nodded. "How did that happen? How can I know beyond any doubt that it's true?"

She shrugged helplessly, wishing she could explain it. It would have reassured them both. She could admit to herself that she was a little frightened by what had just happened. What if recalling his past meant forgetting the present? Was it possible that he would forget what had taken place these last five years? Berkeley felt small and selfish for wondering if he would no longer remember her. "Perhaps you shouldn't try to force your recollections," she said, swallowing her guilt. "It's never been helpful before."

"You're right," he said. His arms circled her waist easily, and the crease between his brows disappeared. "There's no point in rushing it or even in expecting that my memory can be rushed. Not after all this time. Another five years may go by before I remember something else as trivial as my birthday."

"I don't think that's so trivial. Trivial would be if you recalled the name of the first pony you rode or the first girl you kissed."

Grey answered before he realized what he was going to say. "Barbara O'Dare."

"What?"

"The pony's name was Barbara O'Dare," he said softly, his voice touched by awe. "I was four, I think. No more than five. Someone set me in the saddle and led me around the paddock before we went through the garden and up to the house." The vision in his mind's eye abruptly ended. Grey had no sense of who led the pony or what the grounds and house looked like. The occasion of the event had been his birthday. He was certain of that.

Berkeley watched him shake his head slowly as if to clear it. His blue-gray eyes recaptured their sharpness, and she became his focal point again. "Who was the girl?" she asked. "The one who shared your first kiss."

Grey didn't hesitate to answer though he didn't remember a thing about it. In spite of the ache forming behind his eyes, he said cheekily, "My mother."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

"But it's all
I
know."

Berkeley was sensitive to the tightening of his fingers on her waist. "Your headache's returned, hasn't it?"

He nodded. "It will pass." Grey didn't release Berkeley from his lap. "No, stay right here. Tell me what you want to write to the Thornes."

She allowed him to change the subject though her own anxiety wasn't lessened by this topic. "I want to tell Captain Thorne that I believe I've found Graham Denison and that if he wants assurances, he will have to come to San Francisco. I'll explain about your memory loss and that you may be of little help in—"

"No help," Grey interjected. "Explain that it's likely I will be of
no
help. There's nothing to be gained by raising the man's hopes."

"All right. I'll be very clear on that count. I will further explain that I can give him no assurances that Graham Denison is in fact Greydon Thorne. It's not something I've ever felt when I've touched you. But that's perfectly reasonable when one considers that Greydon was only an infant when he was separated from his brothers. If you were never told that you weren't a Denison by blood and birth, then you have no means to communicate that knowledge to me. When I held your hand, I've only ever sensed that Graham Denison was dead and Greydon Thorne never existed."

"Neither of which is true," Grey said. He paused, considering Berkeley's choice of words. As always, her careful expression of what she felt was open to interpretation. "And yet there's a kind of truth in both those elements."