Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (44 page)

As she met his gaze, Mr. Dupont was momentarily enchanted. He might have to sell the watch after all, for he was tempted to take Evelyn for his own.

She was, in a single word, stunning.

Until she opened her mouth.

“Mr. Dupont!” she cried, awareness brightening her eyes. She seemed to awaken from a stupor. “I am ever so delighted to see you! By Jove, I am
starving
! I did not realize you would be gone for the greater half of eternity. You might have warned me, you silly man! Where is my supper? Have you brought it?”

She was shouting so loudly the entire city of Panama would hear.

Mr. Dupont cast a sharp look at his wife.

“Shut her up, Cherie,” he demanded, “before she frightens every customer away!”

“Customers!” Evelyn cried. She almost choked on her laughter. “You haven’t
got
any customers!”

“What do you propose I do?” Cherie asked. “She hasn’t eaten, and she has had too much to drink.”

“And whose fault is that, hm?”

“It is
her
fault!” Evelyn declared. “But I daresay I don’t mind. The absinthe was lovely! Might I have another?”

Cherie spat a quick “No.”

“You must distract her, Cherie. Get her on the piano. And do not, under any circumstances, feed her.”

This was a very displeasing bit of conversation for Evelyn. She stood awkwardly and balled her fists against her hips.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I came to you for food, Mr. Dupont, and I am very disappointed in your establishment. Disappointed indeed! Such a dishonest businessman! My father would be disgusted. I demand the meal you promised me!”

“You will throw up all over the piano. Is that what you want?”

“I am
starving
!” she repeated, indignant.

She was positively wired. If she continued talking, no man would want her. She looked beautiful, yes, but Mr. Dupont had to find a way to calm her down and shut her up before his plan was completely sabotaged.

“I’m not so certain this will work,” Cherie muttered, as if responding to her husband’s thoughts.

Mr. Dupont rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He really wanted to fire his wife. From her job, from their marriage, from life. Leave it to her to practically poison the girl. One shot of absinthe would pickle a woman Evelyn’s size. He had wanted her complacent. Docile. Loose. Not hammering drunk.

“Then you must give her some opium,” he told his wife flatly, slowly.

Cherie adamantly shook her head.

“She won’t take it.”

“Did you offer it to her before or after she was completely drunk?”

Cherie stared at Mr. Dupont. What he was suggesting was potentially dangerous. Here was a girl who could not even handle strong drink, and now she must be drugged?

“Husband, I do not believe that is the best idea. She could be damaged, or faint-”

“Then you can be the one to stand behind her onstage and make sure that doesn’t happen,
concord
?”

“But
monsieur-
”

“The opium, Cherie!”

Mr. Dupont was done arguing. His wife had made a mess of things, and it was up to her to clean them up.

He turned to leave.

“I want my veal!” Evelyn shouted after him, oblivious to all else. She was really angry with Mr. Dupont. Really,
really
angry. In fact, she pretty much despised him. She didn’t want to play his insipid piano anymore, and she was now considering stealing these pretty clothes and walking straight back to camp. She didn’t give a deuce about that silly performance, and she expressed as much to Mr. Dupont’s disappearing silhouette.

He grunted, muttered something about a watch, and vanished into the corridor.

* * *

A gathering of nearby voices gave Lucius something other than his depression to think about. He heard laughter, and shouting, and the level of noise seemed to grow by the second as more and more voices joined the mix.

He considered his options once more. He could remain here, bored and sullen, or he could remain sullen while taking care of his boredom and see what all the fuss was about.

Lucius really hated being bored, so he stood up, and a bit too quickly, at that. A rush of blood to his head nearly knocked him back over.

Once he had steadied himself and conquered a new wave of nausea, he took a walk towards the street gathering. As he came closer, he heard the sound of roosters. These people had assembled for a cockfight.

It was a popular event here, and when Lucius saw the creatures, he knew them to be the victors of past altercations. Their feathers were limp and tattered from previous squabbles, and their faces and feet betrayed a number of battle scars. They had the look of death in their eyes as they charged one another, claws flailing and beaks pecking. One was quite a bit larger than the other; indeed, he was a bit larger than
most
roosters, for which he had merited the name “Goliath”, as the men were now shouting out. The smaller bird was consequently referred to as “Pigmy”, and bets were taken as to whether Goliath’s brute strength would conquer, or Pigmy’s swiftness would take the victory.

The situation was a bit too reminiscent of Lucius’ own, and he sadly shook his head for poor Pigmy. He might be a scrapper, but the giant was sure to come out on top. Just like Brock Donnigan.

A wiry young lad conducted business as men called for him, and he zipped here and there with a scrap of paper and a bit of coal. Lucius was busy staring at the boy’s unusually red nose when that very nose appeared before him, belonging to a pair of inquisitive eyes.

“You wanna place a bet, sir?” the boy asked.

Lucius had never bet on this sort of thing before. How could he know what the birds might do? Were they his friends, that he might place his faith in them? Were they his enemies, that he might know their sins and weaknesses? Lucius was not a bird man. He was a poker player.

And yet this cockfight bore a striking resemblance to reality. The scrawny bird was like Lucius, up against Mr. High-and-Mighty Goliath, the scoundrel who thrived on the defeat of weaker, smaller birds. Goliath strutted through life, gaining strength by taking things as he pleased. Someone else’s job here, his money there, and when he was feeling especially greedy, he snatched up another man’s wife. Most likely, Goliath slept in the warmth and comfort of the henhouse, surrounded by indulgent females, while Pigmy roamed through the night, cold and alone. Pigmy had scraped through a few battles, but this underdog had never come up against a beast like this.

“I would put my money on the big one,” Lucius thought aloud.

Excitedly, Red Nose lifted his scrap of paper so high it hurt Lucius’ eyes just to watch. The poor wretch must be far-sighted.

“And what are your figures, sir?” the boy inquired.

Lucius’ hand traveled unconsciously to his pocket, and reappeared consciously empty.

For a moment, he stared blankly at his palm, then blinkingly returned his eyes to the Nose.

“Sir?” the boy prodded. “Your bet, sir?”

Behind him, there was a loud squawk, and the boy turned quickly, forgetting all about Lucius.

Cheers filled the street as Goliath emitted a gurgled cry and curled his legs beneath his body in the mud at Pigmy’s feet. The underdog had ripped open the larger bird’s throat, and Goliath was burrowing down to die.

“Wait for it! Wait for it!” someone announced.

The men leaned in for a closer look, as Pigmy took another dive at Goliath, pecking out the other bird’s eyes.

“Ohhh!” the crowd cried with inhumane delight.

“That’s it!” someone shouted.

“Told you ‘e would git ‘im, Rob!”

“Little devil always goes back for the eyes!”

Lucius shook his head slowly, and turned to walk away. The demon of Despair settled upon him once more, as he realized that even if he had possessed the money, he would have lost it again anyway.

* * *

            Lucius and Evelyn had been gone for hours, and Josephine sat facing the sea, her thoughts directed towards them and her prayers directed towards God. Behind her, Adele had emerged from her tent, and was feeling well enough now to pick up Evelyn’s reading lesson where she had left off with Samuel. Hungry to learn, Samuel hung on every word, while Bartholomew admired the detailed illustrations in a volume of Aesop’s Fables.

            From a cluster of nearby tents, Josephine overheard a man as he excitedly relayed news to a friend.

            “George! George!” the man cried. “Come quickly, you lazy git. You’ll miss all the fun.”

            There was a bit of grumbling on George’s behalf, followed by “Go away, Amos.”

            “But Dupont’s got a new girl.”

            George grumbled some more.

            “Dupont?” he said. “He pick a good one this time?”

            “I saw her, George.”

            “And?”

            There was a pause.

            “She was playin’ the piano. Loveliest face I ever seen. Like a China doll, only they say she’s from Ireland. An Irish rose! And do you know what else, George?”

            There was some rustling as George began to move about.

            “What?” was the gruff response.

            “You know her.”

            “
Know
her? How?”

            “Think, George. How many Irish girls we got here?”

            “No!”

            “Yes!”

            “Flynn’s girl?”

            “She ain’t Flynn’s girl! She ain’t anyone’s girl! I don’t know how he did it, but Dupont snagged her, and she’s performin’ this minute. They say she ain’t ever been touched. She’s fresh! Clean! And Dupont’s gonna auction her off. Might already be startin’.”

“How in the world did he get a hold of her?”

“I said I don’t know! Maybe she needs the money. Doesn’t matter, anyhow. We gotta get there fast if we wanna chance at her.”

            “Like hell! Let’s get a move on!”

            Josephine stood. Evelyn had been abducted and was about to be sold to the highest bidder. Indeed, how
had
they gotten a hold of her? And what did they have to do to force her into such bondage? Threaten her? Drug her? A prostitute! Evelyn would never sell herself. Not willingly.

It could not happen. It would not! Josephine had stood by long enough. She had to do something. She had to find Lucius and together, they must claim Evelyn, before it was too late.

            If the others knew Josephine was going off on her own, they would try to stop her. They would not understand, and neither of the adults could accompany her. It was not safe for Adele, and Samuel could not leave the tents.

Josephine must go. Now.

            She stealthily ducked behind the nearest tent, disappearing into the vastness that was American Camp. Alone.

* * *

            Evelyn could barely hold up her head. She just wanted to sleep. Did anyone else notice the clumsiness of her fingers? She continuously missed the note by fumbling into another. As the audience grew, she was certain someone who understood music must be present, and she watched for the disapproving shake of his head.

            There was no sign of disapproval anywhere, however. There was only mirth and exhilaration as the place filled with body after body, and the air grew heavier and heavier with sweat, smoke, dust, and spit. Mr. Dupont must be thrilled. Here was the full house he had been praying for. But where was he? He owed her at least one free meal for all the trouble she had gone through for him. Perhaps another time, though. The sharpness of her hunger was somewhat assuaged by the numbness that had taken over. She could not feel a thing, and sometimes she had the sensation she was falling, until a pair of strong, bony arms would catch her around the middle and tilt her up once more. It was Cherie, standing behind her should she collapse beneath the weight of her intoxication.

            Evelyn decidedly did not enjoy this feeling. This stirring drunkenness, this confusing nothingness, only stole from the elation she usually felt when she played music. She was trapped within herself, in a foggy glass prison, from which she could not escape. Here there was no clarity, no freedom.

            She was beginning to feel sick, and the closeness of the room was pressing in on her as more men piled into the establishment. They were laughing, shouting, hollering indecent things. Were they directed at her? They must be, if the direction of their eyes was any indication. Everyone, everyone was looking at her, as feelings of insecurity, vulnerability, fear, and uneasiness descended upon her. The bubbly sort of silliness, the fiery fits of anger, and the careless apathy she had felt after her first glass of absinthe were dissipating into a frightful melancholy. As she transitioned from a bouncing melody into a mournful sonata, she found herself longing for home with a strength she had not felt for some time. She felt small and fragile, and she yearned for the warmth and familiarity that did not exist here. She wanted her father; but not only was he absent here, he was absent everywhere.

            A cry of displeasure arose from the crowd, as they did not care for the present tune. It sounded like a dirge, and the only thing worse than a dirge was a hymn. The men did not want to be reminded of the difficulty of their circumstances. They craved the illusion of perfection. Happiness. No one wanted to spend the evening with a despondent woman. Despondency meant talking, and tears, and all sorts of other painful things.

Their dissatisfaction bore great influence with Mr. Dupont, who quickly appeared out of nowhere and flew to Evelyn’s side. He leaned forward and whispered fiercely into her ear.

            “Give us something jolly, pigeon, or they will tear the house down.”

            She was slow to comprehend the request, and the transition into a happier tune was even slower. Mr. Dupont was not pleased.

            “Something jolly, Miss Brennan!”

            She tried to remember, tried to conjure a piece that hinted of lighter, happier times. But as her fingers lingered on the minor keys, songs of despondency were all that came to mind.