Patricia Potter (11 page)

Sophie welcomed Quinn warmly, ordering the best whiskey for him and inviting him into her office where plush chairs were gathered around a small table. It was here that she enjoyed discussing business.

“I saw the
Lucky Lady
come in and wondered if we would be favored with a visit.”

“Whenever I have time, Sophie. You know that.”

“Not always,” she said with a small frown. “And never enough. All the girls ask about you.”

“As if you didn’t keep them busy enough already,” he said, the corner of his mouth crooking in a particularly attractive way.

“And Cam? He’s all right?”

Some of the half smile disappeared. “He’s brooding. A personal project.”

“A girl?”

“Ah, you’ve guessed it,” Quinn said.

Sophie frowned slightly. “It’s dangerous…”

“To get personally involved,” Quinn finished for her. “But the damage is done. He saw her on this last trip upriver.”

“Sarah’s going to be bitterly disappointed. She was hoping…”

“I know,” Quinn said softly. Many of Sophie’s girls ended up married, particularly to men headed west where there was a shortage of women and old rules didn’t apply. Sarah was a particularly attractive mulatto girl who had been freed when her master had died. But she had had no place to go. She was suited only as a ladies’ maid, and few ladies wanted such competition around. Nearly starving, she had ended up at Sophie’s as a maid but had gradually become “one of the girls.” She had planned to earn enough money to go north and start a small clothing store of her own—until she met Cam. Then her dreams started to change. Both Sophie and Quinn had seen it in her eyes, but Cam had not.

“And you, Quinn, still no lady in your life?”

“Only you, love,” he said teasingly.

“Ah, but I’m old enough to be your mother.”

Quinn looked at Sophie closely. From everything he had heard, she must be in her late fifties, but she looked fifteen years younger. Perhaps it was because of the sparkle in her eyes and the compassion in her face. Her hair, always neatly bound in a chignon, was as blond as it must have been in her twenties, and her skin showed few wrinkles, only laugh marks around her eyes.

Yet she, like all of them, faced danger every day. He hoped it showed no more on him than it did on her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she reminded him.

“Ah, Sophie, you have told me time after time that no one in our business should get involved. It’s too damned distracting.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. She had known him three years now, and she was an extraordinary judge of character. She had to be, just to survive. She didn’t think she had ever met a lonelier man than Quinn, although it had taken her a while to discover that. He hid his emotions extremely well behind a mask of cynicism. She regularly tried to tempt him with one of her girls, and God knew they were all more than willing, but only twice had she succeeded, both times with Alicia, who had black hair and a slight form.

Alicia had been hesitant to say anything to her later, only that he was a considerate tender lover and that, oddly enough, he didn’t want her to undress him, as many of the clients did, nor did he even wish to discard his shirt.

Sophie had often wondered about Quinn. Few wealthy Southerners were involved in the Railroad. She knew of only two, both Virginians, one a Samuel Smith, who had been caught and sent to prison, and John Fairfield, who had once dropped off a delivery at her place of business. But then there was so much secrecy that she did not know more. She knew about Quinn only because they had worked together.

She had tried to prod several times…to no avail. He would talk about anything but himself and the reason he was involved in the Underground. If she hadn’t seen the affection between him and Cam, she would wonder if he had any heart at all. And then she started to see the loneliness behind the self-confident facade, and she hurt for him.

But she could not press him for explanations. It might mean losing his friendship, and that she was not willing to risk.

“And tonight?” she pressed. “Alicia’s free.”

Alicia was one of the reasons he had come. Passionate Alicia who never asked questions. The relief, he’d hoped, would take his mind away from the nagging image of Meredith Seaton. But somehow, he knew it wouldn’t. Not tonight.

He shook his head. “I’m tired, Sophie. Your company, a good glass of wine and dinner—that’s all I require.”

Sophie shook her head. His eyes were tired, his mouth grimmer than usual. “You need more than that, Quinn.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but it will do for the moment.”

“Any trouble?” Her question came as an afterthought. Quinn Devereux never had trouble.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Ever hear of the Carroll brothers?”

“Them!” Sophie nearly spat the words out. “You heard about Toombs?”

“I was told about him. I’ve been wondering if there’s anything I can do….”

“Don’t,” Sophie said shortly. “They’re hoping someone will try to help him escape, so they can discover more of us. We can’t afford to lose you. In any event,” she said, “it was the Carroll brothers who discovered him and a shipment of slaves. They’re smarter than they look.”

“You’ve met them?”

“No,” she said. “But we’ve had various reports about them. Be careful around them.”

“They were on the
Lucky Lady.”

“They must have had a reason. Be careful, Quinn.”

“I’m always careful, darlin’,” he said. “Now what about that dinner?”

From that moment on, the conversation turned light, to the foibles of local politicians, to a new singer who was to come to Cairo, to new books, especially Charles Dickens’s
David Copperfield,
which had recently reached America and which Quinn had just finished reading. It was, as usual, an enjoyable visit, yet Quinn couldn’t quiet a restlessness he hadn’t felt this strongly in years.

When he finally took his leave, he wandered down to the river. Then, still restless, he returned to town, ending up at the furniture and art studio that he had visited a month earlier. It was here that he had found the rainbow painting that so intrigued him. He knew the proprietor often worked late and decided to stop by and inquire whether any more of M. Sabre’s paintings were available.

A light was on in the back of the store, although the front door was locked. He knocked with more force than he intended.

The stocky proprietor, a man named Davis, came into sight, his eyes and face anxious and growing more so when he saw Quinn. He quickly unlocked the door, urged Quinn inside and locked it again, this time drawing the shade.

“My God, what are you doing here? Trouble?”

Quinn felt immediately apologetic as he eyed the man whose hands were trembling slightly. He had never before come here after hours, and he knew he probably shouldn’t be here at all. Casual contact between stations and conductors was not encouraged.

“No,” he replied soothingly. “I just…wondered if you had any more paintings by that artist.”

The man’s nervousness noticeably lessened, although there was a trace of anger in his response. “No,” he said shortly. “We receive very few, no more than three a year, and they go very quickly.”

“The artist—what do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” Davis said. “The paintings are sent by one of our stations in New Orleans. I asked once whether I could get more, and the answer was no. I also asked for information about the artist, but there was none.”

“What…are the other subjects…?” For the life of him, Quinn couldn’t understand why he had become obsessed with M. Sabre.

“Usually the Mississippi. There was one—dawn over the river—that nearly equaled the one you bought.”

“Can you try to find out more?”

“I can try, but I doubt I’ll have any luck. The artist obviously wants to remain anonymous.”

“If any more paintings arrive, I’ll purchase them…regardless of price.”

“I’ll save any, then.”

Quinn nodded.

“When will you be back?”

“We’ll reach St. Louis tomorrow night and then start back. Ten days, no more.”

“Any special cargo this time?”

“Ten. They’re safely loaded on Cameron’s keelboat.”

The storeowner studied his visitor’s hooded eyes. He was more than surprised at Devereux’s visit. Earlier visits had always been strictly business. “I’ll let you know when they reach Canada.”

Quinn smiled. The storeowner didn’t know about Sophie, nor Sophie about the store. As far as Quinn knew, Davis and Sophie were the only two Underground stations in Cairo, and he couldn’t imagine two individuals less alike.

Davis, he knew, was a deeply religious man who was involved because he believed slavery was an abomination to God. Sophie, on the other hand, was simply a compassionate woman whose own tragic early life made her sympathetic to others. He wondered, with just a touch of sardonic amusement, what each would think of the other. Or, for that matter, what they thought of him.

Unwilling to guess, he simply nodded his head in farewell and waited for Davis to unlock and open the door.

But Quinn still wasn’t ready to go back to the boat.

He thought he had defeated this dissatisfaction, this damnable craving for something he didn’t quite comprehend. For three years now, his restlessness had been tamed or at least submerged, but now it was once more rearing its ugly head. And it was worse than ever.

“Build a wall around ye, lad…and stand tall inside. They no ken tetch ye, then.”

It had been good advice eleven years ago. It had helped him survive, those words from Terrence O’Connell, the Irish rebel who had shared his cage on the transport to Australia. Quinn had built that wall, heavy stone after heavy stone, and it had withstood the assault of his captors. But now, for some reason, it was crumbling.

It was just too damned lonely inside.

C
hapter 6

MEREDITH RELUCTANTLY
made her way down the winding mahogany staircase to her brother’s study. She had been summoned and she knew there was no refusing. She had been home several weeks, and she felt trapped, eager for another trip.

Since she arrived, disapproving eyes always settled on her, accompanied by condescending words.

“Don’t you think, dear, you could do something with your hair?” Her sister-in-law.

“Damn it, make yourself useful for once in your life, and stop that infernal giggling.” Her brother.

And though she brought censure upon herself, and planned everything exactly this way, inside there was something hurtful and aching and yearning. Something reaching out for more. The feeling was especially sharp since she had left the
Lucky Lady.

She paused outside the study doors, hearing the voices inside.

“Strangely enough,” she heard her brother say, “Gil is pressing his suit.”

“It must be the money,” she heard her sister-in-law Evelyn muse.

“If it were anyone but Gil, I would agree,” Robert said. “But he has more than enough of his own.”

“Well, I don’t care why. I’ll just be glad to get her and those horrible paintings out of here. She’s insisting we put that…that bowl of fruit in the dining room. It will give everyone indigestion.”

“It was that fall,” Robert said. “She’s never been quite right since then. Poor Gil. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”

That fall. Meredith leaned against the wall next to the door leading to the study. That fall. It had changed everything, but not in the way Robert thought.

She remembered the pain. It had been excruciating: as if a hammer were being struck haphazardly in her head. Every place hurt, and as one sharp pain receded, another took its place. She cried out, wanting the comfort of a word or a hand, but there was none. When she opened her eyes she saw only the cold hostile stare of her father.

“You made a spectacle of yourself,” he said in his harsh voice.

“Lissa?”

“She’s gone.”

“Where?” That was the only important thing.

His eyes grew even colder. “I don’t know, and I don’t care, Missy. There will be no more mention of her.”

The pain came stronger, and Meredith closed her eyes against it…and against her father. She would find Lissa. She didn’t know how, but she would. Someday she would. She swallowed against asking more questions, knowing it would accomplish nothing. Something inside her hardened, and tears, which had been in the back of her eyes, froze. She would not give him the satisfaction. She turned to the wall, away from him.

During the days that followed the pain receded, but she did not speak. She didn’t complain. She didn’t question.

A week later, she overheard her father and the doctor talking when they thought she was asleep.

“She’s acting very strangely. She hasn’t said a word since she first woke up.”