Tears of Gold (3 page)

The ship’s stores had been replenished from the open marketplaces and stalls where gaily dressed black women, often with their infant children strapped to their backs with pieces of cotton cloth, would sell oranges, bananas, lemons and limes, native fruits and vegetables, coffee and tea, or any other goods needed to continue the long voyage. Brightly plumaged parrots and tropical birds, squealing monkeys, and large snakes, coiled in the corners of frail wooden cages, were also temptingly offered for sale.

Mara shivered now in memory of the turbulent sea their ship had encountered as it had fought the cold, gusting winds that had raged as the two great oceans met at the tip of South America—Cape Horn, or so they called it, but Brendan had more aptly named it the Gates of Hell. Poor Brendan, Mara smiled reflectively, he’d turned green with seasickness and fear as their ship had been tossed about like so much driftwood on the tide. Brendan hated the sea. Maybe it made him feel insignificant to gaze as far as the horizon and see only shimmering water, and know that it was something he couldn’t exert power over or charm with his good looks or smooth-tongued manner.

It had taken them two weeks to round the Horn, their sails furled as they struggled against the head winds and through the cross seas, the ocean surging into the ship as heavy swells broke over the bow, nosing her under. It was almost beyond human effort just to remain clinging to your berth as the ship seemed to upend itself time and time again until Mara thought it must break in two from the tremendous force of the thrashing waves.

Despite Mara’s beliefs to the contrary, the
Windsong
made it around the Horn and into the Pacific Ocean with only minor repairs needing to be made as they sailed northward up the west coast of South America, leaving behind the hailstorms and snow of Cape Horn. They docked briefly for fresh water and provisions in the Chilean port of Valparaiso, a small version of Rio de Janeiro, but without the charm or spectacular scenery, and also their last port of call before reaching their final destination.

It had been a hundred and some odd days now, Mara calculated haphazardly. She’d long ago lost count of the exact number, but soon they must reach San Francisco, for the California coastline couldn’t extend much farther, she thought with a feeling of impatience as she stared at the long line of rugged shore stretching northward.

“
Dispénseme, señora
.”

Mara whirled around in surprise. With the creaking of the tall masts and flapping of the sails, she had not heard anyone approach, nor had she expected to see anyone. Few passengers braved the cold wind on deck, preferring to remain securely below in the relative warmth of their cabins. Mara eyed the Spanish gentleman cautiously, her chin raised haughtily to discourage further conversation. There was something about the Spaniard she did not like or trust. She had first observed him in conversation with Brendan, and even then she had felt an instinctive mistrust of the man. Oh, he was charming, Mara had to concede, but maybe that was why she distrusted him. He was too polite, too solicitous of her welfare, too much the gentleman to be true.

Don Luís Cristobal Quintero stared thoughtfully into the defiantly upturned face of the young woman who was backed against the railing. He noted with regret the antagonism in the golden brown eyes. He had been warned to expect this. But he would not have his efforts go in vain, for too much depended upon his success. He had come close to losing everything because of the selfish willfulness of another female, and he had vowed not to allow this one to defeat him.“Should you be on deck in such weather, and unchaperoned, señora?” Don Luís inquired with just the right hint of concern in his voice. Yet Mara sensed the deception in it.

“Strange things have been known to happen at sea. Should you lose your footing,” he speculated softly, shaking his head, “why, no one would miss you until it was too late. I doubt that you could survive in this freezing water.”

Don Luís shivered delicately at the thought, then smiled apologetically. “But then perhaps you swim, señora? You Europeans seem so accomplished at everything that I am constantly amazed.”

Mara turned her face away from the slightly mocking expression on Don Luís’s aging, aristocratic features. Despite the reassurance of the sailors clinging to the rigging of the ship as they adjusted the sails high above her head, she shivered, feeling vulnerable as she stood beside the Spaniard.

“That is unimportant,
señor
, since I have no intention of falling overboard. Now, if you’ll be so kind?” Mara made a move to step past Don Luís, but he continued to block her way as he stared down at her.

“Your husband, Señor Brendan O’Flynn, is not as lucky as he would have you believe, señora. Do ask him about it, for I promise you will find his answer most interesting and illuminating.
Adiós
,” Don Luís bid her, mocking his farewell as he bowed exaggeratedly with old-world courtesy. He turned without another word and walked away.

Mara stared at his retreating back in puzzlement, a feeling of unease settling in the pit of her stomach. Could she truly have heard correctly? Had the suave
don
actually threatened her? It must surely have been her overactive imagination, prejudiced by her dislike of the man. But if indeed Brendan had been lying to her again, then she would be doing more than merely threatening when she had a word with him.

Mara walked unsteadily across the deck to the door leading down to the companionway, a slight smile on her lips as she remembered the Spaniard’s addressing her, Señora, he had called her. Another one of Brendan’s schemes was to travel as man and wife, and with Paddy along they presented the image of the ideal family. Not only did it protect her from the unwanted advances of unattached males, but it also created an aura of respectability for Brendan. And what could be more perfect, for out-of-work actors were usually looked upon with suspicion. And rightly so, Mara thought, as she remembered all of the unpaid hotel bills they had left behind as they had sneaked off in the middle of the night.

The companionway was shadowy as Mara made her way down it, but she needed no light to pick out Brendan’s door. She knocked twice as she heard the sweet, haunting notes on his fiddle. It was the
port
na bpúcaí
, which Brendan could play so very sweetly—Irish fairy music that was a part of them all, the superstitions and beliefs that influenced their lives and made them what they were. Mara shrugged off the deeply ingrained fears that were warring within her, and entered Brendan’s cabin. She stood tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the last mournful notes to die into the coldness of the cabin and signal the end of his song.

“Surprised I am to be finding you within, Brendan O’Flynn,” Mara began without even greeting him. She threw her sable muff on the foot of his berth and turned to face him. He lounged gracefully against the other end of the berth, a pillow propped behind his shoulders. Brendan looked up lazily from his fiddle, a surprised look on his face at Mara’s tone of voice. He carefully placed his fiddle beside him and picked up several yellowed sheets of paper.

“The divil take me if I can remember this cursed play,” he complained as he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving the dark, reddish-brown curls standing on end.

“And what are you doing reading a play? I thought we were through working for little pay and even less appreciation? In fact,” Mara continued, “I thought we were sitting on a gold mine for sure, the gold just waiting for us to be spending it. And now that I’m on the subject of money, I’ll be wanting a look at our savings.”

“Will you now?” Brendan murmured softly, masking his surprise as he carelessly dropped the pages to the floor. “And just supposing, little Mara, me love, I’m not in the mood to show them to you?” he drawled.

Mara untied the ribbons of her bonnet and pulled it from her head, smoothing the thick chignon at the base of her neck. The light from the whale-oil lamps shone down on her hair, creating the very misleading illusion of a halo around her head.

“Then I just might be doing without your help,” Mara answered back, her eyes darkening with challenge.

“Would ye be doin’ that now? Ah, Jaysus, but me own little sister turning against me,” Brendan moaned as he increased his Irish lilt to a thick brogue. A sad look crossed his handsome features despite the fact that his eyes fairly danced with mirth. “I’m of a mind not to be tellin’ ye a cursed thing, Mara O’Flynn.”

Mara watched the smile linger on his lips as he gazed innocently up at her. He was far too handsome for his own good. His profile was reminiscent of Byron’s for sure, and his eyes had a devilish tilt at the outward corners that gave him an impish look. It was a face that fascinated the ladies, Mara thought with mingled disgust and admiration at the charming picture he made.

“There’s nothing to be worried about, mavournin. Brendan’s never let you down, has he?”

“Aye, and the moon be as lovely a green as Ireland. D’ye take me for a fool, Brendan?” Mara asked, her own brogue deepening as her voice began to quiver with anger. “You might be interested in knowing ’twas a Spanish gentleman who called it to my attention.”

Brendan, actor though he was, still could not control the stiffening of his body, the momentary flash of anger that flickered in his eyes.

“Aye, I can see you’ve made his acquaintance, and over the card table too, I’ve little doubt,” Mara taunted. “Well, do I have to be looking for it meself?”

“You’ll not be finding a cursed thing, Mara,” Brendan confessed. He got to his feet, stretching his lithe body with less energy than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at Mara and shrugged philosophically. “I’ve gone and lost it, damned if I haven’t, Mara.”

Mara closed her eyes, giving a deep sigh before opening them to return his look. She stared into his face, so much like her own with the heavy-lidded, thickly lashed, and slightly slanted eyes below sleekly arched eyebrows. Straight, narrow noses and full, sensuous mouths completed the arrogantly aristocratic molding of their faces.

Mara knew before she spoke what her words would be, for she had recited the same lines over and over again. The setting was the only thing that ever changed. The characters always remained the same, but with each repeated performance her delivery suffered, losing its spontaneity and meaning.

“God help you, Brendan O’Flynn, d’ye care nothing for Padraic or me? You’d be taking the food out of your own son’s mouth to lay a bet,” Mara threw at him incautiously.

Brendan moved quickly and grabbed Mara by the shoulders, his lean fingers digging deeply into her soft flesh. “I’d kill a man for saying that of Brendan O’Flynn. The day’ll never dawn that I can’t be putting food on the table for me own son and sister. You be remembering that,
Miss
O’Flynn.”

Brendan pushed Mara from him and, with a malicious-looking smile, added, “I seem to be rememberin’ a certain uppity colleen who was turning down offers of marriage, even though it’d be helping her family, just because she had not a liking for the gentlemen who’d made the offers. Poor as a church mouse she was, and yet acting as proud as a duchess. The devil take me if I be the selfish one,” Brendan berated her. “There am I, a poor widower with a motherless child, fair to starving for want of decent work for a gentleman like meself, and you’re turning down the rich gents who could be making our lives a bit easier,” he continued cruelly.

Mara flushed angrily. “And would you be having me marry a man old enough to be me grandfather? And the other fine gentleman was twice the widower with a house swarming with children he’d be wanting me to nursemaid. Oh no, Brendan. I’m no martyr, even for you and Paddy O’Flynn. And besides, who was turning down parts because he was thinking them not grand enough for the great actor he is?”

“You’re a cold wench, Mara, and you’ll end up an old maid if you keep holding out for the gent you think will be matching your uncompromising ideals. Ye be a fool for sure, girlie. Have you forgotten your heritage, Mara? Do you think a fine gent will be wanting to marry a bastard? That’s what we are, you and me both, Mara, and don’t you be forgetting it. We be the illegitimate offspring of a Dublin actress and a fine gentleman of Ireland who abandoned us when he grew tired of our bonny faces,” Brendan said bitterly. “You’ll not be faring much better than our dear mother, Mara, if ye be castin’ your eyes too high. Fine gentlemen don’t marry actresses or bastards, they only take them to bed. You’ll not be receiving many offers of marriage, little love.”

“And do you think I care? I’ll not be taken for the fool that mother was. No one will hurt me like that, and do you know why, Brendan?” Mara asked him softly, her golden eyes glowing. “Because I never give them a chance to. Because I’ve had their hearts carved to pieces on a platter before me while I smile into their lusting eyes, knowing full well they’ll never be dining with me, Mara O’Flynn, and proud of it I am. You say I’m cold, aye, but as least me heart’s me own, and in one piece.”

Mara looked down at her hands, chafed and red from the cold wind. “So we can be throwing insults at each other until we’re blue in the face, but that’s not changing the fact that we’re out of funds and have no way of paying our way in this San Francisco of yours. Or are we to just be picking these golden nuggets right off the ground, kicking them under foot as we search for the biggest?” Mara asked sarcastically.

Brendan unconsciously stroked a flared eyebrow. It was a nervous habit that meant he was trying to find the right words to convince her of something even he was unsure about. “Why’d you do it, Brendan?” Mara asked tiredly. “We’d made it.”

“I took a chance—all or nothing. I had to, Mara. Our money was down too low,” Brendan explained, his dark eyes pleading for understanding. “Sometimes I just can’t be helping meself. I’ve got to be feeling them cards in me hands, because I just know I can be winning this time. Sometimes it’s almost like a fever in me.” Brendan spoke in puzzlement, not understanding this part of himself. “If only I could’ve won…We needed the money real bad. Our fares cost more than I’d imagined, as does everything else. I swear the world’s gone crazy. Why, a man can’t even afford to be buried anymore.”