Midnight Star

  “Your money is yours, Chauncey,” he said with quiet deliberation. “I want nothing to do with it. Did you think I would demand that you turn your funds over to me? A dowry of sorts?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking at him straightly. “I am not much used to men and their ways.”

  “I think you are somewhat used to men, but the variety you’ve known were not particularly sterling specimens. Your uncle, Sir Guy the prig, and Owen the toad. Perhaps, if you wish, I can point you to some wise investments.” He shrugged, and her eyes were drawn, despite herself, to his shoulders, firm and muscular. She swallowed convulsively and reached blindly for her wineglass.

  “I told you, Chauncey,” he continued after a moment, not understanding her sudden abstraction, “that I would never harm you. Nor will I ever try to make you into something you are not. All I will ever ask of you”—his lips twisted into a crooked smile—“is that you will be happy as my wife.”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, “that is what I want too.” But I will harm you! I must!

  “Tell me, my dear, does reality taste as sweet as the dream?”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Reality, dear one, is me as your husband. The chase was the dream.”

  “Perhaps,” she said a bit unsteadily, “you should ask me that after you are my husband.”

  “I will, you can count on it. There was something else I wished to say to you, Chauncey. You are English. Until five months ago, England was all you knew. I want to assure you that if you wish to spend some time in England, we will go together. Wives adhering to their husbands is all fine and good, but I would never demand that you forget all that you were before you came to me.”

  Her hand tightened about the stem of her wineglass. She spoke aloud her confusion without considering. “Why are you so . . . nice? So considerate and reasonable?”

  He cocked a mobile brow at her. “Did you expect me to be otherwise?”

  Yes, damn you!

  She smiled brightly, a false smile. “No, of course not, you simply took me off-guard. There is really nothing left for me in England. But you, Del, you have those illustrious relations, do you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you not thick as . . . thieves with them when you were last in England? When? Fifty-one?”

  “Yes, in 1851. The duke and duchess certainly introduced me to a lot of people, as I told you. I believe the duchess’s not-so-hidden motive was to find me a nice English wife. She will doubtless be utterly delight to hear that she has succeeded, all without lifting a finger.”

  Oh God, will she recognize the name Jameson? If she doesn’t, will she want to know who the devil I am? Will Delaney ask questions I cannot answer?

  “It takes dreadfully long to send and receive letters from England, doesn’t it? Good heavens, your precious duke and duchess won’t know of your marriage for at least three months.”

  “True. I wrote to both to them and to my brother this afternoon after I returned home from my visit with Dan. My brother has long urged me to take the fatal step.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of this fatal-step business!”

  “Man talk, Chauncey, nothing more. Men tend to boast aloud of their freedom all the while wishing desperately for permanency: a wife and home and family.”

  Permanency. Will I be gone in six months?

  “A family,” she repeated suddenly, her eyes going blank.

  Delaney’s wineglass paused at his lips. “It is normally something that follows quite naturally from marriage, you know, my love. Do you not want children?”

  She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. That is, I am young!”

  “Many women have their first child when they are only sixteen or seventeen.”

  She moistened her dry lips with her tongue. “Must children follow marriage, Delaney? Right away, I mean?”

  What the devil was wrong? he wondered, keeping his expression impassive with difficulty. “No, I suppose not. Most husbands and wives desire children.” He wanted to tease her, tell her that the probability of her conceiving would be high, since he likely wouldn’t let her out of his bed for six months. He wondered if she even knew how babies were made, and decided not to pursue the subject until after they were married. “If you wish to wait, I suppose it can be arranged.” He pictured himself asking Marie what she used to prevent conception, and nearly choked on his wine at the thought.

  “Yes,” she managed, “I think I do wish it.” She knew that husbands and wives were intimate, knew that they took their clothes off around each other and slept together. And kissed and other things. She shook her head, refusing to think closely about it. Whatever she had to do as his wife, she would do.

  Delaney was devoutly relieved he was sitting down, for whatever she knew or didn’t know, he doubted she could be unaware of the bulge in his trousers were he to rise. “When will you marry me, Chauncey?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

  “Whenever you would like,” she said, toying with her vegetables.

  “Next week? At St. Mary’s?”

  “For a man who has cherished his freedom for twenty-eight years, you are very anxious, Mr. Saxton, to get yourself chained!”

  He grinned at her. “True, too true,” he said. “Also, my dear, I won’t want you moving back to the Oriental.” He lowered his eyes and murmured softly, “Saint told me you’d be in fine fettle in another week.”

  “Wretched man! Do you know why he is called Saint?”

  “Indeed I do, but it is his story, not mine.” He wanted to tease her that Saint would likely tell her when she was in labor with their first child. He remembered suddenly the terrible fear he had felt when his sister-in-law, Giana, had gone into labor while out walking with him in New York two years before. Perhaps, he thought, they could wait.

  “Do you know something?” he asked after a moment, laughing.

  “Many things, sir, but likely this is going to be at my expense!”

  “No, not really. It’s just that I haven’t asked you properly to marry me. I discount asking you while we wallowed in the sand at the beach. Will you marry me, Chauncey?”

  “May I assume that you are metaphorically lying prostrate at my feet?”

  “A dead fox, ma’am. Or at least a collapsed one. You have run me to ground.”

  She frowned at him. “You make me sound like some sort of Amazon. I am not, you know.”

  “What are you, Chauncey?”

  “I, sir?” She raptly studied the fine linen napkin in her lap. “I am merely a woman who . . . wants you, above all other men.”

  “Want, Chauncey? Such an staid word, quite functional as a matter of fact. And I, my dear, am a romantic. You might remember that.”

  And I am a realist! She felt a strange emptiness as she gazed at him beneath lowered lids. There was humor in his eyes, and tenderness. Directed at her. Surely, she thought, he did not expect her to tell him that she loved him! She said very softly, “Yes, Del, I promise to remember.”

  “Excellent. Now, my dear future wife, would you like me to teach you how to play poker?”

  Delaney finally settled on his back in his temporary bed, pillowing his head on his arms. Life was damned odd, he thought, frowning into the darkness. A month ago he was contemplating marriage to Penelope Stevenson. Without love. Lord, but he had been an utter fool even to have considered it. Elizabeth Jameson. Chauncey. She was everything he wanted in a wife. What he’d said to Dan was true. She satified the imagination. And she wanted him. Words he said in passion to Marie. Functional words. He told himself again, his mind sliding into sleep, that all would come in time.

  14

  “She looks skinny and pale, like a frumpy old lady!”

  Tony Dawson raised a pained brow at Penelope’s ludicrous comment. Surely soon she would run out of nasty things to say about Miss Jameson. His mind froze on that thought. No, now she was Mrs. Delaney Saxton. Tony sighed, wishing Pene
lope would somehow disappear and leave him to his misery. But of course she didn’t.

  “I can’t believe Del would be taken in by the likes of her!”

  “Likes, Penelope? What do you mean by that?” Keep your damned mouth shut, he chided himself. Here he was asking for more virulent remarks.

  “Some English lady,” Penelope hissed, aware that that old bitch Agatha Newton was staring down her nose at her. “No one really knows who she is or where she comes from. All she has is money.”

  Tony looked pensively into his champagne glass. “She does have money,” he said finally in a noncommittal voice, then added, “If one listens carefully to her speech, I venture to say that England is the only place she could come from.”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Penelope said, “and you know it!”

  Tony ignored this accusation, looking around frantically for help, but saw none forthcoming. The bride and groom were being toasted by Sam Brannan and Reverend Barkeley by the wide bay windows. Chauncey did look pale, he thought, his heart wrenching slightly at the sight of her. He sighed, hearing Penelope’s shrill whisper.

  “You do know, don’t you, Tony, that she slept here, in Delaney’s bed, for the past two and a half weeks? He was forced to marry her!”

  “I think it was more a case of Del being a Good Samaritan, Penelope, don’t you? After all, she was quite ill.”

  “Ha!” Penelope said, sniffing. “She will learn soon that Del is like all the other men in San Francisco. A tomcat with a mistress!”

  Agatha Newton shook her head, feeling sorry for Tony Dawson, his disappointment as well as his obvious trial in Penelope Stevenson’s company. Ridiculous little snit! Didn’t she realize that she was but making herself look foolish? As for all the other guests, they were warmhearted and full of good wishes for Del and Chauncey. The small wedding at St. Mary’s, she and Horace and Dan Brewer the witnesses, had been quite elegant, Reverend David Barkeley having managed to stow all his hellfire and brimstone for the ceremony. Here in the Saxton home at least one hundred people had strolled through during the afternoon to wish the couple the best. A magnificent buffet had been set out in the dining room, compliments of Lin Chou and Armond Arnault’s catering service. Agatha met her husband’s eye and nodded slightly. It was getting late and Chauncey looked ready to drop from weariness. Agatha’s gray eyes softened with memory as she gazed at the lovely white satin gown, designed and sewn by Monsieur Daneau himself, all in one short week. The bodice fit snugly and was heavily trimmed with exquisite white Brussels lace. A half-dozen petticoats supported the endless rich yards of the heavy satin skirt. The long white veil was sewn with delicate seed pearls and fell gracefully down Chauncey’s back. It was fixed to the crown of her head with a circle of orange blossom. Around her slender neck was a beautiful single strand of pearls, similar to those Agatha had worn twenty years before at her own wedding.

  “Ready, my dear?” Horace asked quietly, coming to stand beside her.

  Agatha sighed. “Doesn’t she look glorious, Horace? Ah, how all this makes me remember our own wedding day.”

  Horace Newton scratched his gray head. “Lord, Aggie, you remember that far back? And here I’ve tried to forget all of it.”

  Well used to her spouse’s teasing, Agatha ignored his drawing words and asked, “Do you think, Horace, that I should perhaps speak to Chauncey?”

  “Whatever for?” her husband asked in some surprise. “Thought you’d already proffered all the right sentiments.”

  “Her mother died when she was a little girl,” Agatha explained as if to a dull-witted child. “I shouldn’t wonder if she were quite ignorant about the more intimate parts of marriage. Maybe as an older married woman—”

  “Lord, Aggie, leave off! Del can handle all of that. He’s not a randy boy, after all. I doubt the girl’s all that naive in any case.”

  “She’s English,” Agatha said with some asperity. “You know how well-bred girls are raised there.”

  “No, I don’t, but no matter. The last thing she needs is an old battleax like you advising her!”

  “Uncouth bore!”

  “Well, I suppose you could tell her that she’ll have the time of her life.”

  Agatha poked him fondly in the ribs. “Well, I refuse to leave until that silly little fool Penelope Stevenson is safely out the door. And Sally Stevenson! You’d think the world has come to an end.”

  “All right. I’ll go collar Bunker. He’s beginning to look the worse for wear. Excellent champagne, and all Bunker has swilled is brandy.”

  “And I’ll rescue poor Tony from Penelope.” Agatha smiled politely to the remaining guests, keeping on course to where Tony stood, a look of long suffering on his handsome face. “How are you, Tony, Penelope?” she asked brightly. “What a lovely wedding it was, don’t you think? And this magnificent reception. I vow I’ve eaten enough for three days!”

  “The wedding cake was too dry,” Penelope said. “I’ll bet that Chink cook of Del’s made it.”

  “You know, Penelope,” Agatha said thoughtfully, staring down at the girl, “there is nothing more repugnant than a show of bad manners, particularly when the show derives from jealousy. Don’t you agree?”

  “You’ll see,” Penelope said stiffly, looking from Agatha Newton, silly old cow, to a flushed Tony Dawson, “Del will tire of her quickly enough. Then he’ll be sorry.” With that obscure parting shot, she turned and flounced toward her mother.

  “Thank you for the rescue, Agatha,” Tony said fervently, swallowing the remainder of his champagne.

  “My pleasure, dear boy.” She patted his hand. “We’re leaving now. Would you like to accompany us?”

  Tony gave her a crooked grin. “Why? Do you think I’ll say something repugnant if I remain?”

  “Oh no,” Agatha said cheerfully. “It’s just that it’s sometimes better to spend time with friends than alone.”

  “Just so, but not this evening, thank you.”

  “Damned fine filly you got, Del,” Sam Brannan was saying to Delaney as he walked him to the front door.

  “Thank you, Sam. I agree, you may be sure.”

  “The poor girl looks quite tired,” Sam continued, unable to contain the leer that made his full lips pout. “Lord, I hope she won’t be exhausted tomorrow!”

  Delaney stiffened, his smile forced. “I’m glad you could come, Sam,” he said.

  After a sharp, jovial poke in Delaney’s stomach, Sam Brannan took his leave, followed by the Stevensons and the Newtons.

  Chauncey, finally released from the proselytizing endeavors of Reverend Barkeley—“the Church of England, indeed, ma’am!”—and still reeling from all the people she had met for the first time, eased herself into a comfortable velvet chair and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  She heard Delaney’s smooth voice from the entryway, deftly turning the more suggestive comments from the single men and complimenting the ladies on their apparel as they filed out the front door.

  “I am Mrs. Delaney Saxton,” she murmured, her voice revealing the shock of it. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I imagine that you will soon enough.”

  Her eyes flew open. Tony Dawson was smiling down at her, but his left hand was fisted at his side.

  “Ah, Tony,” she said, regaining her control quickly. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I am going now. I wanted to wish you well again, Elizabeth.”

  “Please, Tony, call me Chauncey.”

  He lifted a well-formed eyebrow. “Del won’t mind?”

  “Whatever does he have to say with my name?”

  “He is now your husband. I imagine he will have a lot to say about many things.”

  “Well,” she said pertly, rising from her chair and smoothing the full skirts of her white satin gown, “so will I! And I think I can outtalk him most of the time.”

  “Is she tossing down the gauntlet, Tony?” Delaney said, smiling at his wife.

  Tony saw the softness in his f
riend’s gaze and winced. “I’ll be going now,” he said somewhat stiffly, disregarding Del’s jesting question. “Will you be traveling out of the city for a wedding trip?”

  “We haven’t decided anything specific yet,” Delaney said. “Doubtless my fast-talking wife will inform me soon what she wants to do.”

  “All I want to do,” Chauncey said on an artless yawn, “is go to bed.”

  Both men whipped about to stare at her. “Ah, my dear,” Delaney said finally, a wide grin revealing straight white teeth, “you must learn to keep your more interesting wishes to yourself. Or at least whisper them to me very softly.”

  “Oh!” Her face flushed a bright red. “I didn’t mean . . . that is . . . you’re terrible, Delaney Saxton! Tony, come, I’ll show you out! We will leave this wretched tease to himself.”

  Tony paused at the front door after accepting his top hat from Lucas. “I do wish you the very best, Chauncey,” he said, smiling down at her. “Del is a fine man. You will be happy with him, I am certain.” He looked as if he would say more, and Chauncey held her breath for a moment, praying he would not.

  “Thank you, Tony. You must come over to dinner soon. Lin makes the most delicious concoctions.” She laughed lightly, hoping to break the tension she felt emanating from him. “I have learned never to ask her the ingredients.”

  “Yes, I should be delighted,” he said, and turned quickly on his heel.

  “He’ll survive, madam. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  Chauncey turned at Lucas’ shortly spoken words. “Yes, I know.” She smiled ruefully. “If Tony were in a more equally populated city, I fancy his feelings would never have been engaged.”

  “As to that, I couldn’t say. Ah, here is Mr. Saxton.”