Tears of Gold (2 page)

“What the devil has happened? Are you all right, Jamie?” Mara asked in growing concern as she saw Jamie’s quivering lips, and forgetting her book and tea, she left the bed and walked over to Jamie. “Sit down and do tell me what has happened.”

Jamie sunk down onto the chair with a deep sigh, her whole body seeming to heave a shuddering breath. “I told ye ’twas bad, didn’t I? I warned ye, Mara O’Flynn, that ye was playin’ the divil’s game. I told ye, time and time again, ye’d rue the day. God have mercy on ye, Mara, if it hasn’t come to pass this very day.”

Mara paced before her impatiently. “What
has
happened?” she repeated in exasperation, feeling a cold dread spreading through her body as Jamie began to speak in a slow, monotonous voice.

“The young lord went and shot himself. Went crazy with grief they said. They couldn’t talk no sense into him, even his friend who was with him at the time.”

Mara shivered, hugging her arms about her body as if to protect herself from Jamie’s words. “How do you know this? ’Tisn’t true, is it, Jamie?”

“Aye, ’tis true enough. Heard the shot o’ the pistol meself. ’Twas my doin’ too,” she added on a sob.

Mara looked down at the grizzled head in disbelief. “
Your
doing? Jamie, you’re not making sense.”

“’Twas after I delivered the package that he shot himself. Seein’ the dress and locket must have driven him beyond all reason. I was down the street a bit when I heard it. Servants was runnin’ everywhere, and then coaches started pullin’ up, and I just stayed out o’ sight, but close enough in a crowd to hear them say the young lord had gone and shot himself dead.”

“’Tisn’t my fault,” Mara whispered worriedly.

Jamie looked up. “Who is goin’ to be blamed for this day’s deeds—well, I’ll not be so righteous as to say. Only, ’tis a good thing we be leavin’ London for Paris tomorrow. That much I will say,” Jamie said meaningfully, “for there be some who might not be so generous over this matter.”

Mara returned her stare steadily, no sign of emotion apparent on her flawless features. “No sense in telling Brendan, is there?” Mara asked calmly, the only indication of nervousness the clasping and unclasping of her hands.

As her lips began to tremble under the strain, Mara turned and walked over to the window. She drew aside the heavy curtain and stared out at the dusky twilight descending over the forested parks and fashionable squares of London. She hid her face from the room as she gazed at the twinkling lights beginning to appear all over the city.

Dear God, what had possessed her to do this? What demons were trying to drive her toward her own destruction? If only she’d left well enough alone. But no, she’d had to toy with the affections of that young lord. Never before had she hated herself for the games she played. Always in the past she had felt justified. But this time it was different. It had ended in tragedy. If only she could go back and change what had happened. But it was too late to say she was sorry. Too late to beg for his forgiveness. He was dead, and it was her fault. That was the ugly truth she must accept and live with for the rest of her life.

A spasm of remorse crossed her face, but no one saw it, nor would they have believed it. For Mara was adept at hiding her feelings.

“No one will be remembering my name, Jamie. Mara O’Flynn’s part in this tragedy will soon be forgotten, replaced by some new piece of gossip. When we leave London, we will leave the past behind us. Your word, Jamie, that we never speak of it again,” Mara demanded as she turned to face the old woman.

“I’d never be doin’ anything to hurt ye, Mara,” Jamie sighed. “’Tis forgotten.”

***

“Mara…oh, God, Mara. Please let me love you,” the voice pleaded in anguished hopelessness. “She’s a temptress, a witch with laughing, golden eyes. Oh, Mara, you can’t be saying these things to me.

“Irish bitch!” Julian screamed hoarsely as he writhed with fever in the bed. A strong hand pressed him back against the pillows, holding him firmly against the cool sheets. Sensing the comforting restraint, Julian opened his blue eyes and was lucid for a moment as he recognized the man leaning over him. He reached out his hand and with sudden strength grasped the other man’s shoulder in a hard grip.

“She led me on out of malice. She did it on purpose. My God, Nick, the hate I saw in her eyes. If she’d had a knife, she would have stabbed me through the heart. Instead, she used words to wound me.” Julian’s glazed blue eyes met the man’s penetrating stare. “She laughed at me. Ridiculed my love. She said she’d hurt far wiser men than me. I wasn’t the only one she’d played the enchantress with, only to deceive in the end. But
why?
Why did she do it? What did I ever do to her, except to give her my heart?”

Julian broke free and hid his burning face in the coolness of his pillow as a tear trickled from the corner of his eye. “She was so beautiful, Nick. There was something so wild and free about her, something I envied. In her moods, she was like an untamed creature. But the danger was worth it. When she’d smile at you, her mouth…” Julian murmured softly, his voice trailing off as his eyes closed.

Nicholas Chantale stood up and drew the blankets closer about his nephew’s shoulders. He stared down at the young man, hardly more than a boy, and felt a deep resentment, a barely controlled rage growing within him as he thought of the woman who had so heartlessly driven his nephew into attempting to take his own life. As he looked down at Julian’s boyish face, he was reminded of another fair-haired Adonis and a face he’d once known even better than he knew this one.

As Nicholas stood silently, deep in thought, the door opened and the doctor entered, followed by Julian’s mother. The countess, Lady Sande, glanced hesitantly at her brother and moved quietly to the side of the bed. At Nicholas’s nod she gave a shuddering sigh of relief and gazed down lovingly at her son.

“I do not understand at all,” the countess cried. “If only Charles were here. He would know what to do. But at least I have you, Nicholas, and for that I am most thankful. It was fated that you should be in London at this time, for without Charles I am completely helpless.”

“Did you send a message to him?” Nicholas asked as he pulled a chair up close to the bed and gently pushed the countess into it.

Turning her tear-swollen eyes away from her son’s flushed face, she gazed distractedly up at her brother.

“Charles. Is the earl on his way?” Nicholas patiently reminded her.

“Yes, of course. Charles is coming down from Edinburgh immediately,” the countess answered absently as she turned to the doctor. “You will not let anything happen to
mon petit
Julian, doctor?
Il est mon fils, mon enfant unique.
Nicholas,” she cried, lapsing into her native French as she pleaded for her son’s life.

“That I ever left New Orleans and came to this land I now regret.
Mon Dieu!
I should have listened to Papa and never married an Englishman. My sins have caught up with me for defying the family. I shall lose my Julian and cause the good Charles such pain…My fault, all my fault,” she whispered brokenly.

“Denise, please, you’re making yourself ill.” Nicholas realized he went unheard as she turned to him, a determined glint in her eyes.

“
Mon frère
, Nicholas, you must promise me that you find this person and exact retribution from her. I will not live in peace until you do. And if,” she choked over her next words, “if
mon bébé
dies, then you must kill this creature as well. Promise you will seek vengeance for this act of cruelty. Promise!” she cried as she struggled to her feet.

“Madam! You must control yourself,” the doctor warned, “or I shall be forced to confine your ladyship to your room. I will not have any emotional outbursts in the sickroom.” He noted her rapid breathing and vivid color and sighed. Why couldn’t his patient be of an ordinary English family? These French were so volatile. He felt quite drained after every meeting with the countess. Whatever she was saying now was agitating her into a passion, and he didn’t care to have a collapsed countess on his hands as well as the wounded son.

The doctor sent an imploring look to the tall French-American. “You really must try to calm the countess down. She will not listen to me. I’m only her doctor, after all. These hysterics are dangerous for both her and my patient,” the doctor told him sternly, despite his feelings of unease in issuing such an order to the rugged-looking man towering over him.

“It is enough, Denise. You do no one any good by continuing in this manner. I know you are suffering, but—” Nicholas tried to soothe her.

“
Non!
You do not know what I suffer as I see my only son dying before my very eyes,” she interrupted him angrily. “You will promise me, Nicholas—please! I beg this of you, for you are the only one I trust to be ruthless enough to do it. You have no softness in you, Nicholas. You do not forgive.”

“Enough, sister. You need have no fear. I will punish this woman. She will regret this day,” Nicholas promised in a cold voice devoid of all emotion. “I give you my word that one day she will pay for what she has done to Julian.”

The doctor glanced nervously between the brother and sister and felt a shiver of fear at the expressions on their faces.

Nicholas looked down again at his nephew. Would he live? A bullet so near the heart could cause great damage. He might even be left an invalid for the rest of his life…if he survived. Nicholas turned to leave, but was stopped by Denise’s hand placed lightly on the hard muscles of his forearm.

“I am sorry, Nicky,” she said softly, using her pet name for him. “I know you feel the pain. I remember how deeply you were hurt when François died in your arms.”

Nicholas shrugged. “It seems a lifetime ago, Denise. Yet this brings it back as though it were yesterday. Julian is much like our François once was, eh, Denise?” Nicholas said with a sad smile. Then, without another word, he walked from the room, leaving Denise, quietly complacent now that she’d received his promise, sitting beside Julian’s bed.

The countess’s townhouse was quiet as Nicholas made his way to the earl’s study. Pouring himself a brandy, he looked around the book-lined room, taking in the well-upholstered leather chairs, the large mahogany desk, and the rich velvet hangings drawn across the windows. Denise had done well for herself despite their parents’ predictions to the contrary. Not that Nicholas would have selected the earl for a brother-in-law. Charles was far too staid and proper.

The good Charles found Nicholas to be lacking these characteristics, and was pointedly absent during Nicholas’s brief visit for just that reason. The fact that Julian openly admired his adventurer uncle did little to lessen the strained relationship between Nicholas and Charles.

As Nicholas stood there silently sipping his brandy, he suddenly remembered the parcel that had been delivered and had triggered Julian’s tragic reaction. It had fallen beside the desk, still partially wrapped with brown paper. Nicholas tossed off the last of his brandy and picked up the discarded package, placing it on the desk. He pushed aside the concealing paper and looked curiously at the contents. As he opened the leather case sitting on top, he was unable to conceal his surprise at the ruby necklace and earrings. Rage at his nephew’s wound prevented him from wondering why an unscrupulous woman would return so expensive a gift.

He removed the bundle of velvet and, shaking it out, held up a dark red dress. The woman who wore it must have the perfect figure. The waist was cut unbelievably small, while the bodice and décolletage curved to conceal and seductively reveal at the same time. By the length of the skirt, Nicholas estimated her to be of average height, standing only as high as his shoulder.

Nicholas folded the dress and placed it back in the wrapping and noticed for the first time a golden locket that must have fallen to the floor when he’d removed the dress. He picked it up and started to add it to the pile when he hesitated and out of curiosity sought the clasp. Beneath the pressure of his thumb it sprang open to reveal two faces. He recognized immediately the face of his nephew. Julian’s painted features were a study in blue and gold, but the face opposite was completely unknown to him.

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the beautiful, aloof features of the woman half smiling up at him. Despite himself he was intrigued by her face. She was far younger than he’d thought her to be, and far more refined looking than he’d imagined. Her eyes, beneath flyaway brows, seemed to glow goldenly, while the half-smile enticed with soft, seductive promises.

“By God, she is a beauty,” Nicholas breathed. “Poor Julian. He never had a chance with someone like this. He was right, there is a certain wildness about her, a damn-your-eyes attitude,” Nicholas speculated softly, wondering what thoughts were behind those remarkable eyes. He shook his dark head in exasperation, shaking off the captivating face as he remembered her cruelty. Nicholas stared into the painted face for a moment longer, feeling as though she could hear his thoughts. “When we meet, you’ll learn what cruelty really is,” he vowed. “And we will meet, Mara O’Flynn. That I promise you.”

Chapter 1

Mara O’Flynn braced her legs against the roll and pitch of the ship as it smoothly climbed the waves, only to drop abruptly after clearing the crest into a chasm of blue-black water. The wind cut through her cloak like a dagger of ice, yet Mara reveled in the feel of the brisk, tangy salt spray on her face. She raised her head higher and stared up at the three, far-reaching masts of the ship. Fully rigged, they stretched up into the sky with a profusion of sails filled by the wind.

It had been in the winter of 1850 that they had set sail from the city of New York, leaving behind a storm of snow and howling winds that had blanketed the city in white. But as they had made their way to open sea, they had faced even worse as gale-force winds and snow flurries had raged at the ship, keeping most of the land-loving passengers below decks fighting off attacks of seasickness. Sailors are fond of saying that the sea never remains the same, and they were right, Mara thought in amazement when one morning, after a week of heavy squalls, she had awakened to a calm sea. As she stood on deck now, she could remember the first sail they’d sighted on the horizon, the first sign to her that they were not lost and alone on an endless sea.

“Ship ahoy!” the second mate had cried out from aloft as the strange ship had drawn closer.

“Hello!” had come the reply.

“What ship are ye?”

“The brig
La Mouette
, from Marseilles bound for Boston. Where do you hail from?”

“We’re the clipper
Windsong
, from New York bound for California and fifteen days out.”

That had been four months ago. Mara now looked across the waves into the distance, staring in disbelief and despair at the bleak shore that was barely discernible, shrouded in floating layers of fog. This was the California coastline. Was this the land they had come to make their fortunes in? Was this the golden dream that had cast its spell upon the world? Mara thought of all the people, like herself, who had been uprooted from their homes and countries to find their fortunes in this land paved in nuggets of gold. Why, on this ship alone were men from places she had never even heard of. Crowded together below deck were fancy European gentlemen in their frock coats and silk hats, speaking French, Italian, or English, disdainfully mixing with flannel-shirted laborers and farmers from Germany and Sweden, Portugal and Greece. The mingling of tongues became indistinguishable and unimportant as they found ways to communicate over the card tables. Their small savings exchanged hands time and time again until they’d all lost something in one game or another.

Mara reluctantly slid her hand from her fur muff and pulled the flapping edge of her cloak closer around her legs. She tightened the ribbons on her green velvet bonnet and touched the matching feathers reassuringly before tucking her icy fingers back into the warmth of the quilt-lined muff. She’d forgotten her gloves, but she’d not go below into the stuffiness of the cabin to retrieve them, not while she could stand here on deck and breathe the sweet, fresh air.

Mara sighed, hoping this was not going to be another one of Brendan’s wild flights of fancy. And who was knowing Brendan O’Flynn better than herself? He was her own brother, and the devil take him if he wasn’t a charming Irish rogue. His dancing dark eyes and boyish grin charmed people into believing he was everything he wasn’t.

Mara returned her gaze to the distant shore. The scene dispelled dreams of easy living. How like Ireland it was! Fog swirled around rugged cliffs. White foamy waves pounded against sharp-edged, vicious rocks, keeping you within your own boundaries, never letting you trespass where you didn’t belong. And Mara had a feeling that the O’Flynns didn’t belong in this strange land. But how did she convince Brendan of that? Always building castles in the air he was. A fine time he had talking about it too, but seldom did they ever have anything to show for it except debts and their good name held in contempt. Not that Brendan often used his real name when he was up to some scheme of his.

Thinking back, Mara realized that she couldn’t help but have become infected with Brendan’s enthusiasm as he had planned their journey to America and the faraway land they’d heard was rich in gold. What sane man could resist the image painted of mountains of gold in a land populated by few people? It was yours for the finding, they said. How enticing that was to the poor of Europe, whose ancestors had been born into a life of poverty, and even now their children’s children could hope for little better. Not that the O’Flynns were really of the poor, Mara told herself.

The O’Flynns could trace their bloodlines back to the first kings of Ireland, and were part of one of the great families of the land. Of course, it wasn’t a legal relationship, for she and Brendan were bastards. But their father, a gentleman of means, had set their actress mother up in a fine house in Dublin. There had always been money for them, and even though they had been excluded from the
haut monde
, Mara and Brendan had been well educated by a succession of tutors, knew how to sit a horse as well as any aristocrat bred to it, and could even comport themselves perfectly over the tea table, should the occasion arise.

But while the children were growing up, their gentleman father had grown tired of his aging mistress. Mara’s lovely mouth curled in bitterness as she recalled the abrupt change those circumstances had wrought. Gone was the fine Georgian house that had been their birthplace and held their memories. Gone were the stable of horses and carriages, the army of grooms and hostlers, and the household staff. Jamie, their mother’s longtime maid and confidante, had been the only servant left to them.

It was not only the loss of material comforts that had devastated them. They’d lost their happiness as well, for Maud O’Flynn had made a tragic mistake. After a liaison of close to fifteen years with her gentleman lover, she had committed the folly of falling in love with him. She had lost her youth to those years, but she had never worried about what the future might hold when her beauty faded. Maud, in her love for that one man, had forgotten that it was her beauty that had attracted him in the first place.

Maud O’Flynn seemed also not to have understood that, as his mistress, she had no rights, that she could be discarded as easily as a scuffed pair of shoes or an unfashionable hat. She had believed it could never happen to her. But it had. Mara’s face flamed even now, eleven years later, as she remembered the humiliation of it all. The packing, the giving up of prized possessions that suddenly were no longer theirs.

Few such liaisons end in friendship, without scars, and where love had once blossomed only bitter hatred remained. Maud was broken by her own dreams, forgotten by a man to whom she’d given more of herself than he’d asked for—or had wanted.

Disappointed in her bid to reestablish herself on the stage, finding it unbearable when the roles she coveted were offered to younger women, Maud found comfort in a succession of lovers. Never satisfied, Maud took to traveling, never stopping long enough to create new memories—or to let the shadows of the past catch up with her.

And what of Brendan and herself? Mara asked with remembered pain. Did they no longer have a father, now that he had disclaimed the relationship with their mother? How easy it had been for him to discard them, for they had no legal hold on him. They didn’t even bear his name. Mara wondered if he even remembered them.

Maud O’Flynn had died in Paris, her once beautiful face coarsened by hard living and marred by bitterness. The voluptuous curves of her body had blurred and faded until she seemed like a scarecrow. Fever and cough racking her thin form, she finally found her long-searched-for peace in the silence of a cold, February morning. A bleak sun had risen over the rooftops of Paris as twelve-year-old Mara stood before the window, a crack in the glass of one of the dusty panes letting in a small draught of cold air.

Without turning to look into the room behind her, Mara knew what she would see: Brendan weeping against their mother’s thin chest that was stilled forever; Jamie huddled in a chair muffling her sobs; the paint chipped and peeling from the walls; and the rough wood furniture in the cheap little room that had become the final resting place of Maud O’Flynn, a once-beautiful Irish actress.

Mara had remained dry eyed as she continued to stare out of the window. Why should she cry now that her mother was finally released from a tormented existence? Maud O’Flynn would no longer be forced to look into the mirror and see her haggard face and ask for the thousandth time, “Why?” But Mara’s resolution had nearly failed as she heard Brendan’s agonized cries. They had torn her heart from her. Never again did she want to hear a man cry as Brendan had.

As Mara stared at the tragic drama being enacted in that shabby room, at the ugliness which would be her last memory of her mother, she swore that she would never give anyone the opportunity to hurt her as her father and other men had hurt her mother. A vow made by a child, but it was as devoutly made as any priest’s.

Brendan had been nineteen that year, and because he knew no other way of earning a living, he followed Maud’s footsteps and went on the stage. From then on, the theater had been their life. They traveled to London or Paris, always searching for a better job, and one they hoped would last longer than opening night.

In fact, it had been after their last theatrical engagement, which had been short-lived and had stranded them in Paris without funds, that Brendan had created his latest scheme. Mara had thought he had lost his mind when he had run into their lodgings, a newspaper clutched in his hand, his eyes alight with something she’d not seen in them before. It was a lust not unlike that when he gazed upon a beautiful woman, and yet even that had not been the all-consuming fire that she’d seen in them in that instant.

Gold had been discovered in California. Well, that had meant nothing to her, Mara remembered, for she had never even heard of this place called California. It was on the far side of the United States of America and stretched nearly the length of the coast along the Pacific Ocean, Mara learned from Brendan as he knowledgeably recited the information he’d overheard from others. People were getting rich out there, making fortunes that’d make even a king’s ransom look cheap.

And so had begun the fever. Brendan was crazed with the desire to go to this golden land, and the cold facts that they had no money for such a venture did nothing to cool his ardor. But it seemed as though luck had ridden on Brendan O’Flynn’s shoulder as he had haunted the gaming houses of Paris and London, making outrageous wagers against the highest of odds and having them pay off in his favor. He’d gambled everything and won. He now had enough money for their fares to America and his dream of gold beyond—but what would they find when they reached their voyage’s end? Mara had wondered.

In New York City they had found ships loaded down with gold hunters and supplies leaving daily for the gold mines of California. The rush of the early forty-niners was still going on a year later, but as latecomers, Brendan reasoned, they would learn from the mistakes of the others. There would be no great, rotting hulk of a ship loaded down with gold seekers for the O’Flynns. Brendan had heard the horrifying stories about those overcrowded and poorly provisioned brigs and steamships with their inexperienced crews. Half of the passengers lost their lives even before reaching California. It’d take them only three months instead of the usual seven or more if they sailed on one of the sleek clipper ships, Brendan had declared as he explained away the extra expense such a passage would cost. They usually just carried freight, but they were taking on passengers now, what with the urgent demand to get to California, and they were better equipped and far more seaworthy, Brendan had told Mara confidently. Besides, didn’t they want to get to California before all of the gold was found?

Mara was thankful now for Brendan’s extravagance, for she was certain they never would have survived the long voyage in a lesser ship. Catching the trade winds that had filled their sails and sent them toward the equator, and the balmy weather as they entered the tropics, had been a welcome change from the thunderstorms and high seas of the North Atlantic. The balmy days had turned into long, hot ones by the time they had reached their first port of call, Rio de Janeiro. Guarding the entrance to the bay and seeming to rise out of the sea was the high peak, Pão de Açúcar. The city itself was nestled between the bay, with its sandy beaches and sparkling blue waters, and the conical-shaped hills that stood small before the gray mountain range in the distance. It was a busy port and the last anchorage for most ships traveling around Cape Horn, especially now that the gold rush was on and ships full of Argonauts landed daily.

The streets of Rio de Janeiro were narrow and twisting as they threaded through the city with its lush parks and public plazas where granite fountains sat attractively in the centers, or as they climbed the hillsides to tile-roofed villas with panoramic views of the bay below. Rio de Janeiro seemed a very civilized city with its museums, cafes, and hotels; its palace of the emperor and empress of Brazil; and numerous cathedrals with their ornate spires rising into the azure sky. There was even a theater, the San Januaria, which had its own stock company of players and circus performers. The shops and businesses of European and American traders intermingled along the avenues and were always open for business. Confectioners and blacksmiths, ship’s carpenters and greengrocers had a continuous clientele as ships docked with passengers eager to set foot on land and spend their money.

The people of Rio de Janeiro were just as exotic as their surroundings as they became a blend of the many nationalities that had settled within the shelter of the bay. But the language and customs of the early Portuguese settlers seemed to dominate over the other European colonists, Indians, mestizos, and black slaves that made up the rest of the population of Rio de Janeiro.