Midnight Star (26 page)

He turned abruptly and strode from the room.

“Del, wait!” But he was gone.

He did not return the rest of the day, nor that night. The following morning, he came into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

Chauncey whirled about at the sound of his voice. She gestured helplessly at the open valise on the bed. “I’m packing my things.”

“You will need different things where we’re going.”

She stared at him, hope once again building in her. “What do you mean?”

“When it rains, it pours, it would appear. I received a message late yesterday that there were more troubles at the Midnight Star mine in Downieville. This is the mine, you doubtless know, that earned such great amounts of money for Paul Montgomery. I can’t leave you here—I’m not that great a villain. You’d probably be found drowned in the bay within the week. I think it somewhat ironic that you should see the property that started this entire charade. You’ll need sturdy clothes. I’ll send Mary to you.”

He turned at the doorway. “I am hoping that by the time we return, Lucas and my men will have tracked down Montgomery and . . . taken care of him.”

She had gained more time. She felt dizzy with relief.

“Then, my dear,” he added quietly, “you can return to your packing. Incidentally, wife, it is entirely possible that Mary won’t be leaving with you. It appears that she and Lucas have found that they care for each other. Life can sometimes be very simple and uncomplicated, can it not?”

Delaney kept his face carefully expressionless even when she looked as if he’d struck her. Thank God he’d never told her that he loved her. He felt himself weaken. Words, cruel words, erupted from his throat as he watched her. “Of course I shall initiate divorce proceedings here. England is quite a bit more difficult, I understand. Because I am a gentleman, I shall take the blame. Adultery, perhaps.”

“That probably won’t be untrue,” she said bitterly.

“Ah yes, I keep forgetting that you know me so
very well. I shall be certain that my next wife will allow
me
to court
her.
We leave early in the morning, Chauncey. No,” he added thoughtfully, “not Chauncey. Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh shouldn’t have such an intimate, carefree nickname. Yes, Elizabeth. By the way, we are legally married. I checked with my lawyer. Even though you omitted your complete name, we are tied to each other—for a short time, at least. There is something else, my dear. It is quite possible that the agreement I signed before we were married, allowing you to keep control of your money, isn’t valid. Misrepresentation, I believe my lawyer called it. Wouldn’t that be ironic? But trust me, my dear, not to send you back to England a pauper. Not a complete pauper, in any case.”

The following morning they boarded the beautiful steamer
Senator
for the hundred-mile journey to Sacramento. Chauncey was wearing the only lovely gown she’d brought. She was thankful for the warmth of the burgundy velvet mantle, for the morning was chilly, with fog blanketing the city. How different this will be from our last trip, she thought, staring vaguely around her. Her eyes searched the crowds of people. Was Paul Montgomery there somewhere, watching her? Probably not. Delaney had been too careful.

Delaney was carrying their valises, only two of them, for he told her that they would be traveling light once they’d left the steamer to journey inland. She’d spent several strained and silent hours the day before with Mary, Lucas, and Olaf following discreetly, buying the sturdy clothes Del had ordered. She had bought two split skirts
in heavy wool and two loose-fitting linen blouses. Even her underthings were utterly practical. And stout boots. She paid with her own money.

Late that evening the steamer turned into the Sacramento River, but Chauncey wasn’t aware of it. She dined alone in their stateroom, her thoughts in turmoil. Delaney had simply withdrawn from her. He was polite—oh yes, chillingly so.

“You will stay here, my dear. I trust you have sense enough to obey me in this.”

“Yes,” she said, “I will stay here.” She raised her chin slightly, her eyes searching his face. “And you?”

“I think I will do what most men do—gamble a bit, smoke a cheroot, and drink a good glass of port.”

“You will not dine with me?”

“I believe it would be best if I did not. My civilized veneer just might peel away by the second course. I will see you later, my dear.”

Oh yes, so polite.

She ate little, though the terrapin was doubtless delicious, the green beans fresh and crisp. It was several hours before she fell into a restless sleep, her thoughts moving ahead to the trip they were taking. They would be alone, away from civilization. Please, she prayed to herself, let him forgive me. She wondered if his reaction would have been different had she told him herself who she really was and why she’d come to San Francisco, told him before he discovered it for himself. Would it have made any difference?

She was jerked awake by an insistent hand shaking her shoulder.

“We are getting off, Chauncey. Wake up and dress warmly.”

“But it’s not even daylight,” she said vaguely, pushing her hair out of her face.

“The steamer docks at five o’clock. We will board another, smaller steamer for Marysville. ’Tis but fifty miles, but I don’t want to lose any time.”

“We’re in Sacramento?”

“Yes, but you won’t see much of the town. We’ll board the
Miner
at seven o’clock.”

She couldn’t prevent herself, and asked, “Where did you spend the night, Del?”

She made out his sardonic expression in the dim cabin light. “I don’t believe you really want to know, my dear.”

“No,” she agreed, “you are probably right.”

Thirty minutes later, she stood beside her husband on deck as the
Senator
docked in Sacramento. She could make out little of the town, save that it had a very unfinished look due to the terrible fire of the year before. There were no vast sandy hills, just flat stretches with row upon row of wooden buildings. Even this early in the morning, the wharf area was chaotic with vendors, merchants, builders, drays, and every sort of wagon.

Delaney took her arm firmly and guided her down the gangplank onto the wide wooden wharf. “The
Miner
is close by,” he said, pointing over to the next long plank of wood stretching into the river.

Again Chauncey found herself marveling at the mix of people: Chinese men with their raven-black hair braided down their backs, Spanish
men in colorful sombreros and vests, and black men, tall and muscular in their loose-fitting white shirts. But the majority of the men wore jackets, many of them torn and disreputable-looking, and dirty boots pulled up over their trousers.

They remained in the main salon of the steamer. At least Delaney didn’t leave her side. She watched the men playing cards and chewing tobacco. Even young boys!

“At least they don’t spit!” she said, remembering the times she’d winced at the sight of men, even well-dressed gentlemen, spitting in any corner available.

“No, but watch,” Delaney said. He was smiling slightly, but not at her. She followed his gaze to a boy no more than twelve years old. The lad was chewing tobacco. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and spit the revolting brown wad into it.

The passage to Marysville took longer than expected, for the river had had little rainfall and there was the constant danger of becoming stuck on barely submerged sandbanks. Chauncey stood at the railing, watching everything silently. Occasionally some hills came into view, and here and there were glimpses of a mountain chain. For the most part, though, the scenery was monotonous. Pale green hills dotted with occasional scraggily bushes and scrub oaks.

“We won’t be stopping at Hock Farm,” Delaney said. “General Sutter and his sons are interesting men. Due north is Mount Shasta, the highest point of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.”

Chauncey listened to the sound of his voice, not really caring what he said. He sounded tired,
and she felt waves of concern. How ironic, she thought. How very ironic.

She jumped at the sound of a shout from one of the sailors.

“Marysville!”

Chauncey stared toward the small town coming into view. It was a motley collection of tents and wooden structures haphazardly set down, it seemed to her, with no rhyme or reason. There was not one tree within fifty yards of the town, cut down, she supposed, during the winter for fires. Still some hundred yards away, she could already feel the excitement and that particular sort of chaos that she’d sensed when she first arrived in San Francisco. There were men standing on the long dock wildly waving their felt hats toward the steamer. Chauncey moved closer to Delaney, for the passengers were spilling out onto the deck. Mrs. Dobbs, a most fascinating woman with the reddest hair Chauncey had ever seen, brushed by her.

“Excuse me, dearie. Quite a crush, ain’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I find it most interesting.” She turned to Delaney. “Actually, I feel like I’m in a different world.”

Delaney well understood what she meant, but to him Marysville had changed immensely over the past three years. Gold seekers had scored the virgin land, making it look raw and ugly as sin. That was doubtless what she’d meant. She scorned it. He refused to let himself be drawn to her, to understand her, to smile at her. The past day and a half had been a trial and he’d asked himself over and over why he had brought her here. He hadn’t believed she would be in any real danger in San Francisco.

It is likely she’s in more danger here in the wilds.

He refused to think about it and he refused to smile. He asked in a cold, indifferent voice, “It is not like your decadent, overripe England, is it?”

“No,” she said slowly, her brief excitement crushed, “it is not.”

He’s fighting me. He’s fueling his anger.
She understood, but his flippant words hurt, hurt badly.

She looked toward Mrs. Dobbs, now waving wildly toward the men on shore, laughing and shouting. “I hope her family is here to meet her,” she said.

Delaney laughed coldly. “So you don’t recognize a kindred spirit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Mrs. Dobbs is a whore, of course. She’s like your England, a bit overripe and blown, but the men in Marysville will welcome her with open arms, so to speak.”

At last he had drawn her. Her fingers itched to strike him, but she didn’t. She drew a deep breath
and asked calmly, “Is a wife who responds to her husband considered a whore?”

“Doubtless, if she does it for a reason other than . . . affection. I would at least consider you an honest whore had you demanded money from me.”

“Very well. How much should I charge you?”

“You’ve already taken all I would ever consider paying you.”

It was no use, she thought. He’s keeping me at two arms’ lengths. She forced herself to shrug and look back at the town. “I cannot help but wonder what it will look like in, say, ten years. Surely the gold will be gone by then. Do you believe the people will stay and build up the town?”

“It isn’t quite so bad as you think, my dear. Last time I was here, there were a good six thousand folk living in Marysville and they boasted a theater and two newspapers. More culture than most of your English towns have, I daresay. Why, there are nearly as many goods available in the stores as there are in Sacramento.”

“What are the names of the rivers?”

“We’re at the head of the Feather and the Yuba. We’ll spend the night here, then leave tomorrow morning on horseback for Downieville.”

“There are many gold mines here?”

“Indeed, and quartz mines as well. On the average, the quartz yields about thirteen percent of gold. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

His voice was mocking, but she didn’t respond, only said quietly, “I should like to see how it is done.”

“Perhaps, if you ever decide to visit again, you
will see all the fascinating shafts and galleries, even the gold washings on the Yuba River. Shall I continue about the wooden channels?”

“No, I cannot picture your words in my mind.”

“But I’ve begun to believe you very inventive, my dear, particularly in bed. I vow that with more intense practice, you could rival even Marie.”

She flinched, and did not reply.

Marysville did boast a number of shops, stores, and countless gaming saloons. Chauncey walked beside Delaney down the main street of the town, careful to keep the hem of her gown out of the wide mud puddles. It was warm and she soon felt a trickle of sweat between her breasts. She was constantly aware of men stopping to stare at her, open admiration in their eyes. She found herself wondering if it was all worth it, the frantic search for gold, living in such primitive conditions, without the comfort of a family.

“We will stay here tonight,” she heard Delaney say.

The Golden Goose was a two-story hotel that appeared to have just been built. It looked raw and unfinished. A very old man stood behind the narrow counter. Too old to search for gold, Chauncey thought. He kept rubbing his lower back.

Their small room was on the second floor and overlooked the main street. There were a narrow bed, a basin on an old commode, and a doorless armoire against one wall. Delaney would have to sleep with her tonight, she thought, and wondered what she would do.

He was wondering the same thing. He needed
a good night’s sleep, but knew at the same time that it would be misery to lie beside her and not take her in his arms. He cursed softly under his breath. He saw her stare at him, her expressive eyes showing uncertainty and bewilderment at his unexpected spate of foul language. There were many things he had to do, but he wasn’t quite so cruel as to force her to remain in their room the rest of the day.

“Change into something more appropriate, my dear,” he said finally, “and we will see the town and buy supplies.”

There was no screen, nothing. Chauncey said quietly to Delaney’s back, “I need your help with my buttons.”

He ground out his cheroot and turned from the window. “Not much of a frontier wife, are you? Helpless without a servant to take care of you.”

“With the new clothes I bought, I’ll not need a servant, shall I?”

He felt like a fool, drawing her and baiting her. He frowned at her back as he fiddled with the tiny buttons. He wanted her to fight back, not respond to him with such damned reasonableness, as if she didn’t even care.

“I see you still aren’t wearing a corset.”

“No,” she said, trembling slightly at the touch of his fingers against her bare back.

“Perhaps you should consider it. It improves a woman’s figure immensely.”
Damned liar! You can span her waist with your hands!

“Surely you would not wish me to wear one now?” she asked, wondering how her voice could sound so very calm and self-assured. “We will be
traveling by horseback and camping in the open, won’t we?”

“Yes,” he said, forcing his eyes away from the nape of her neck. “It will be an experience for you, the perfect little lady from England trekking about in the wilderness. Tell me, do you think you can even light a fire outdoors?”

She shoved the gown from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor at her feet. Did she hear him suck in his breath? “You must know the answer to that,” she said, bending down to pick up her gown. She straightened and turned to face him, clutching her discarded gown over her breasts. “You must also know that I can learn, and I will. I won’t delay you, Delaney, or be a burden.”

Why was she hiding her body from him? he wondered perversely. He said aloud, wanting to get a rise from her, “Really, my dear wife, such modesty. Isn’t it a bit late for this maidenly display?”

She looked at him for a long moment, and came to a decision. Slowly she lowered the gown and tossed it to the back of the lone chair. She pulled the straps of her chemise from her shoulders and felt the soft satin glide down to her waist.

Delaney stared at her breasts; he couldn’t help himself. His body responded, and he whispered softly, “Damn you, Chauncey.”

“Is ten ounces of gold too little to ask?” She stared at him straightly, drawing back her shoulders so that her breasts thrust toward him. “Should I perhaps ask more?”

He turned on his heel and strode to the door of
their room. He said over his shoulder, not looking at her, “I’ll be back soon. Go to bed.” He slammed out.

He returned late that afternoon, telling her shortly that he’d seen to buying the necessary supplies. He took her to the
Colleen
Restaurant, owned, he told her, by two Irishmen. After a silent meal of delicious beef stew, he took her back to the hotel and left her at the door of their room.

She slipped between the cold sheets and felt her body slide toward the middle of the lumpy mattress. She couldn’t seem to find a prayer that covered all the problems she faced, and settled for a “Please, God, please make everything all right.”

She heard Delaney come into the room a good hour later. He moved about quietly, but she heard the sound of his boots dropping to the wooden floor. She said nothing, pretending sleep.

When the bed gave under his weight, she held her breath. He rolled against her, cursed long and fluently under his breath, and struggled back to his side of the bed.

The next morning, it was Chauncey who awoke first. She struggled to a sitting position and gazed over at her husband. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her on the pillow. His soft honey-colored hair was tousled, and the angry lines she’d become accustomed to seeing the past couple of days were smoothed out, making him look younger and as vulnerable as a boy. Without her conscious volition, her hand reached to touch his jaw lightly. Light brown stubble scratched against her fingers. Dear Lord, she loved
him so much! But it was too late, much too late. It had been too late before she had ever met him.

She wondered vaguely when she had begun to love him. She could still picture his twinkling eyes when he had danced with her that first night at the Stevensons’ ball, when she hadn’t yet known who he was. He had baited her, mocked her, and teased her. He had made her laugh. She thought of his hands on her body, stroking her, giving her such pleasure, and she shuddered. She had long forgotten the pain and mortification of her wedding night, but even then, she thought now, he had been tender and careful with her, careful not to offend her, careful not to hurt her. She felt a wave of utter hopelessness wash through her, and lowered her head.

“Don’t cry, damn you!”

She sniffed, not looking at him. “I’m not crying.”

“Good, for I’ve given you nothing concrete to weep about!” He thrust back the covers and slid out of bed. He was naked. “You like what you see, wife?”

She recoiled from his sneering voice. “Yes,” she said, raising her face, “I do. I always have. You are very beautiful.”

Delaney turned his back to her, unable to think of a retort. He did not bother dressing until he’d shaved and washed. “Well,” he said, turning to her, “it’s time to get up. We’re leaving within the hour. And wear your sturdy clothes.”

She did as he bid her. Once they were both dressed, they regarded each other with surprise. He was garbed as she’d never seen him: buckskin pants, black boots, and a full-sleeved white
shirt with vest and jacket. He strapped a gunbelt about his waist.

“You look so different,” she said.

“And don’t you look the perfect little prairie maiden,” he said coldly, but secretly he thought she looked beautiful dressed in her wool split skirt, white blouse, her hair braided into a thick plait down her back.

“I trust it will be appropriate,” she said.

“Keep your jacket out. It will get chilly in the mountains.”

“Very well,” she said.

They packed their valises in silence, then made their way downstairs to eat in the small dining room in the hotel. “Eat up,” he said. “From now on we’ll be cooking for ourselves. Since you know nothing about it, I’ll be the chef.”

The old man who had been at the counter served them a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a pile of dry toast.

“Yer goin’ inland?”

Delaney nodded. “To Downieville.”

“Chancy weather, I heard. Long ride.”

“A good seventy miles overland. Any Indians about?”

“Always are. Bloody beggars are always gettin’ their dander up and causin’ trouble. Yer missus travelin’ with ye?”

“Yes.”

“Awful purty, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. Don’t see too many ladies like ye about. Ye dress warm, ma’am.”

Chauncey smiled at him, for his were the first kind words she’d heard in many days.

“Buy yerself some gloves, else you’ll regret it.”

Delaney frowned. He’d forgotten about gloves. He looked at her soft white hands.

“It’s all right, Del,” she said quickly. “I know you want to get an early start. I don’t need gloves.”

“Of course you do. I’ll wake up old Joe Cribbs at the general store. Now, finish your breakfast. It will be the last good meal you’ll have in about three days.”

She lowered her head and ate.

Why, he asked himself yet again, had he brought her? And why did he want to travel overland to Downieville? More time alone with her, you ass.

They rode northeast, Delaney setting a brisk pace. They stayed within sight of the Yuba River, passing miners standing knee-deep in the water, and small camps. Delaney didn’t stop, nor did he speak to her. The sun was high in the sky when he finally called a halt. Chauncey slipped down from her mare’s back and felt her legs wobble a bit. She hadn’t ridden for such a length of time since she was sixteen. She stamped her feet a bit and wandered to the edge of a bluff that overlooked the Yuba River. God, but it was beautiful! She flung her arms wide, embracing the grandeur of the giant fir trees that studded the hills all about them. The gentle barren rolling hills had ceased about an hour before. “I feel as if I’m the first person ever to be here,” she said aloud. “Like I’m an artist who sees a painting no one else has ever seen.”