Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (41 page)

 Samuel watched as Josephine looked for the missing pair. He followed her gaze, faintly hoping that she saw them emerging through the constant flow of bodies that came and went from American Camp.

None of the faces, however, belonged to Evelyn or Lucius.

Samuel sighed in disappointment. He was worried about them, yes; yet he had resigned himself to his current predicament, one he shared with Josephine.

“Ain’t nothing we can do, sweetheart,” he told her, responding to the concerned look upon her face. “You can’t go off by yourself, and I can’t leave you and the others here alone. We jest have to wait, you and I.”

Josephine nodded, though the word was unsettling.
Wait
. Wait for what? For either of them to return? How long should they wait if Evelyn and Lucius did
not
return?

Josephine went to Samuel and sat beside him. For a little while, she watched and listened as he scraped the edge of his knife, again and again, until she leaned her head back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes.

She would wait until their return, or until word arrived. But if word came first, she knew what she must do.

She must go looking. 

* * *

He started her off with a glass of wine. Just one glass. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.

Yet still, she regarded him as though he had lost his mind. She had barely finished the song, had not even left the piano, and she had certainly not placed an order. How
could
she, when Mr. Dupont was busy acting suspicious one moment and indulgent the next? She did not like the way he looked at her, same as how other men looked at her, but with something more. There was the typical hunger, the apparent desperation, but there was something else altogether. Something she could not quite define.

“I don’t recall ordering a glass of wine, Mr. Dupont,” she told him, peering out from beneath her eyebrows.

He waved his own glass through the air.

“It is my treat, Miss Brennan. My treat. As a reward for your splendid performance.” He lifted his wine. “Here’s to you, my dear.”

Hesitantly, she joined him in taking a sip. She had not tasted wine in some time, but this particular vintage tasted significantly more potent than any she had tasted before. The strength of its acidity and bitterness caused her to wince, as the drink made its slow, burning way into the pit of her empty stomach.

When she had recovered, she looked at Mr. Dupont with watering eyes.

“You like it?” he wondered.

“It’s strong.”

He laughed.

“Like a kick in the face, isn’t it?”

These Americans had an interesting way with words.

“I wouldn’t know,” Evelyn replied.

Mr. Dupont tilted his glass for another sip, and as Evelyn had no desire to appear rude, she followed his example.

She coughed this time, but as the wine burned down her throat and through her chest, it did not bother her as much as the first sip. She immediately chased it down with another, as the bitterness created something of a film across her palate, and with each taste, the wine seemed to become more smooth and drinkable.

“You are from Ireland,” Mr. Dupont said.

Evelyn nodded.

“How keen of you to observe,” she replied, tipping back her glass.

Mr. Dupont chuckled. This girl was saucy.

“The potato blight chase you off?” he asked.

“Top marks.”

Mr. Dupont glanced over Evelyn’s fine clothes, the pearls in her ears, the polished boots on her feet.

“Somehow,” he mused, “you don’t strike me as the starving type.”

She glowered at him.

“When your country people are
dying
, Mr. Dupont,” she began, “you are affected, whether you are privileged or not. Money could not save the potatoes, and without the potatoes, my people have nothing. I saw the faces of the starving. Even now, they remain with me.”

Mr. Dupont clicked his tongue. It was a touching speech, to which he raised his glass.

“Then here’s to you, Miss Brennan. May Fate continue to smile upon you.”

“And you, Mr. Dupont,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.

He scoffed.

“Fate has withheld the hand of bounty from me for many years,” he told her. “Yet somehow, when I look at you, Miss Brennan, I feel as though a transformation is coming. There is change in the air. You are a survivor, and perhaps your good fortune will find favor with me and my establishment.”

“Perhaps,” Evelyn replied, though she had serious doubts. No amount of good fortune could bring true happiness to an unprincipled businessman who relied upon the universe to determine his success. Mr. Dupont was a victim of his own lack of integrity. It was obvious in the emptiness of his establishment. Mr. Barrie was doing something right, and Evelyn could guess it had to do with more than pretty girls. For one thing, he must be more attuned to the needs of his customers, rather than bringing them wine they had not requested, in place of the food for which they had come.

It was no matter. Evelyn was still hungry, but she felt her body relaxing. She looked down at the keys of the piano and ran a loving hand along the surface, feeling very satisfied with its discovery. The wine was tasting better and better, and the permission to play this piano was priceless, priceless…

She had not yet finished her glass, but she felt the warmth of the alcohol as it crept up her neck and into her cheeks. There was also a slight tingling sensation happening somewhere behind her forehead.

She should probably stop drinking. After all, the last time she drank was with that beautiful, insufferable Brock Donnigan, and her judgment had been severely impaired. She did not want to make the same mistake here, now. Not that she was in any danger of being wooed into Mr. Dupont’s arms. The idea alone made her gag. She must not think of such things, lest she get sick all over the piano. That would be a tragedy, indeed.

“It was a lovely wine, Mr. Dupont,” she told her most inadequate host, “but if I am to make it back to camp, I must not have any more.”

Mr. Dupont eyed her closely.

“You are not staying in a hotel, then?” he asked.

“Heavens, no. I am not as privileged as that. The hotels are all full, so we are sleeping in a tent, on the ground, yet again. I say, I have never slept on the ground so much in my life.”

 She set her glass upon the top of the piano and stood, using the keys for support. A sudden conglomeration of notes filled the room, and a startled Evelyn pulled her hand away at once.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I am terribly sorry.”

Mr. Dupont chuckled and rose from his seat, snatched Evelyn’s glass, and drained it. Evelyn watched with a slight expression of disgust.

“You say ‘we’,” he said. “I wonder, where is the rest of your party?”

“At camp, of course,” Evelyn replied. The volume of her voice was a little louder than usual, and as she discovered there was much more she wanted to say, she waved a hand through the air. “Except for Lucius. He’s supposed to be my guardian. But you know, I don’t know where he’s gone off to. He doesn’t know I am here alone, and even if he did, I’m not entirely certain he would care. We had a bit of a falling out, I’m afraid, and this morning, he just up and disappeared. I don’t believe he’s taking his position very seriously anymore. But at the moment, I do not wish to complain, for this is the first bit of freedom I have had in a very long while.”

Mr. Dupont nodded with understanding, and something like pleasure.

“I see,” he said, musingly. “So you have nobody to look after you?”

“Nobody,” she conceded. “And that was the way I wanted it when I left camp. But I should be getting back now. I am in desperate need of something to eat, and as you have offered me nothing, I should be on my way.”

There were beans back at camp, and Josephine made wonderful beans.

“I am leaving now,” she told Mr. Dupont, as she tried to ignore the way the room seemed to spin. “Thank you for the wine.”

Mr. Dupont took a step between Evelyn and the entrance, causing her to totter back on her heels for fear of clashing into him.

“You are welcome, Miss Brennan. But if you should decide to stay, which I hope you do, I have the most wonderful cut of veal, complete with regional peppers and spices, which I had intended to prepare for you.”

Evelyn stopped moving, while her mouth began to salivate.

“Veal?” she asked, nearly breathless. How long had it been since she had tasted such a delicacy?

“My wife’s family recipe,” Mr. Dupont nodded. “French, naturally. And so delicious my knees grow weak at the thought of it.”

Evelyn felt her own knees growing weak. The food here in Panama was significantly better than the meager portions given upon the
Steam Rose
, but still it lacked the richness of the meals the Flynns’ cooks had provided in New York. Evelyn longed for lobster that swam in butter and garlic, or chilled cucumber melon soup, or whipped potatoes and gravy. She dreamt of lamb smothered in rosemary, and duck so tender it fell apart upon her tongue, and veal…veal…

“Indeed,” she murmured.

Mr. Dupont rounded behind Evelyn and placed his hands upon her shoulders.

“Yes, I should like to introduce you to my wife,” he continued. “She loves music, you know. The two of you must talk while I prepare the food. But you mustn’t be surprised.”

Evelyn took a second to take the bait, for her thoughts were still trained upon the prospect of veal.

“Surprised about what?” she finally asked.

“If she asks you to stay, of course.”

“Stay?”

Mr. Dupont chuckled and shook his head.

“How silly of me to forget,” he said. “As I told you earlier, I had to let our piano man go. So unfortunate, but we could not pay him, and the man didn’t appreciate music the way you do. He was only here for the money, and insisted he would not play for free, no matter how my wife begged him to stay. A pity. My poor old girl was devastated, as you can imagine, for she herself does not perform, but has an ear for music, and great appreciation for all the arts. But now,
you
are here, and it would mean so much to Mrs. Dupont, and myself as well, if you gave us a performance.”

Evelyn gasped, and the sudden rush of air to her lungs caused her to feel dizzy.

“A performance!”

To stay and perform! And enjoy a plate of savory meat! It was tempting, certainly, but what of the others? How many hours had Evelyn been gone already? And what would her friends think if she was gone still
more
hours? Where, indeed, was Lucius? And why hadn’t he come looking for her? If she never returned, would he come at all? He had little reason to. She knew she had wounded him deeply. There was no denying that. Her behavior had been despicably indulgent, then heart-breakingly cold. Her actions denied Lucius the very thing he had come to want most: closeness. With her. And as admirable, as sweet as his desires were, she could not grant them. It would ruin everything if she did.

“Your talent is unmistakable, Miss Brennan,” Mr. Dupont continued persuasively, disrupting her intoxicated reverie. “Please do not withhold your abilities from those of us who seek to cherish them.”

“But Mr. Dupont, I have not practiced in over a month, and I have not had a looking-glass in weeks. I am dusty, and shabby, and my fingers are stiff from want of use. I am in no condition to perform.”

Mr. Dupont gave her shoulders an encouraging little squeeze. Through the fog that was quickly collecting in her brain, she seemed to remember she did not quite care for this man, and she dipped one of her shoulders to dodge his touch. He did not take the hint, however, as his warm fingers continued to press into her.

“No matter, Miss Brennan, no matter. Appearance is what my wife does best. She will have you looking beautiful in no time. And as for practice, my dear, I heard you play at the beginning of this hour, and I heard nothing but utter perfection. You need not worry about that.”

She realized now she was walking, and Mr. Dupont was guiding her. A distance was growing between her and the entrance, and closing between her and the stage. She was led to the curtain, and before she could protest, Mr. Dupont closed the heavy fabric behind them, and she saw nothing but blackness.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Lucius?”

Brock Donnigan’s opponent was staring at him with distant, empty eyes, an expression that reflected the status of his purse.

Lucius was broke.

Brock had seen it a hundred times. This was the kind of man who Brock reveled in breaking, the kind of man who thought he was invincible, until proven otherwise. A titan in the clouds, cast back to earth at the strike of a serpent. They never saw it coming, never suspected the rugged, poorly dressed vagabond of such cool talent. Gloating and vanity had a way of revealing one’s weaknesses, and Brock had no intention of blowing his cover.

He watched as the others tasted victory after victory; sometimes he even allowed himself to lose a small fortune here and there. Mostly he feigned disinterest. Then, when the time was right, the others would not hesitate to place their riches upon the table. Brock Donnigan was not one to worry about: they had beaten him before, and he wasn’t much for cards anyway. He was just getting a little feisty. It was nothing a little intimidation couldn’t fix. Frighten him into folding, or call his bluff. His cards couldn’t be as good as he suggested.

But Brock Donnigan hadn’t held a job in ten years. Poker was his profession. Of course, no one ever suspected that. Once they learned about his poor, drowned family- who were, in fact, very much alive- they stopped asking questions. No one wanted to be insensitive to a man with a tragic past. Talk about the weather, or the decline of the English language, or slavery. Anything but the man’s personal life.

Lucius’ face was flush with bewilderment. In a second or two, the truth would sink in, and he might throw a punch, or start to scream, or pull the knife from his boot. Brock was prepared for any of these scenarios. As a victor, he had been attacked on a number of occasions. Lucius was pugnacious even before he was a loser, so Brock anticipated something of a fight. However, Lucius was also so drunk he could barely sit up straight. There was no telling whether or not he was aware of what had just happened. He might simply pass out, and Brock was ready for that, too. The laugh was already on his lips.