The strumpets kept their distance, having a care for their continued good health, and it was Sarah who hastened to fill large pitchers and bring them brimming to their table. They ignored the mugs she provided and reached for the tins, but halted as Sarah cleared her throat and announced, “The barkeep said you have to pay before you drink.”
The leader glared at her, but she returned his stare unflinchingly. Finally he dug into the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a handful of coins from which he laboriously counted out a sum and laid it on the table.
“That’s enough for only three pints,” Sarah informed him smartly. “You received four.”
The pinheaded lummox grudgingly added more coin to the rest, then with a leering grin added a single penny to the heap: “And a little somethin’ fer yerself, me dearie.”
The woman gave him a wan, unenthused smile and reached out to sweep the coins into her hand, but before she could draw back, the two fingers of the maimed hand closed with vicious intent upon her upper arm. With a cry of pain she jerked away from the hefty bully and glowered at him as she rubbed the already darkening bruise.
“You mindless red-neck!” she snapped. “Keep your dirty hands to yourself!”
“Eh, now!” he hooted. “I likes a woman with spirit. Why don’t ye go find one o’ them fancy gowns what yer sisters are wearin’ an’ dress yerself up fer me? Ye wouldn’t be half bad to look at in the proper clothes.”
“The same certainly can’t be said of you,” Sarah retorted and sidestepped his sweeping slap, saving herself another bruise, but her agility seemed to challenge the man’s own questionable spryness. Half rising from his chair, he snatched her skirts and spun her around into his embrace. She screeched in outrage as he pulled her down onto his lap, and almost immediately his hand settled between her thighs. The abused woman’s eyes widened, and she gasped at the affront while she struggled desperately to escape his grasp.
Now Ashton had been taught at an early age to respect womankind whatever the circumstance, and he had generally subscribed to that ethic. This display of beastliness was simply too much for him to endure. Rising to his feet, he tugged down his vest and stepped to the other’s table to confront the uncouth lecher.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe the lady desires to be free of you. Why don’t you save us both a lot of bother and release her peaceably?”
The swinish one spilled the ragged woman to the floor in some astonishment. No one had ever had the gall to interfere with him before. Reaching down, Ashton assisted the serving maid to her feet and pushed her toward the bar as the calloused rapscallion came out of his chair with an apoplectic purple mottling his face. The man had not yet attained a state of balance when Ashton’s fist swung around, with his full weight behind the blow. He caught the burly one on the jaw and sent him sprawling backward across the table into his companions. Chairs splintered asunder as the three progressed rapidly to the sawdust floor, with loud “whomphs” and “whoofs” attesting to the force of their landing. The quartet struggled up, grasping for knives, clubs, or whatever weapon came quickly to hand. Ashton forestalled their efforts by kicking the table, along with its contents, on top of them. Ale spewed out of tin pitchers, stinging eyes and filling flaring nostrils. Snarled curses filled the air as the foursome went down again in a thrashing tangle. Unrelenting, Ashton added confusion to the melee by sailing his own table toward them with a lusty heave. The brawny leader had rolled and risen to his hands and knees when the wooden piece caromed off his backside, launching him headlong into his cohorts.
More unfriendly shapes approached through the gloom of the place, forming a veritable wall of darkness that crept ever closer. Ashton recognized the vengeful gleam in their eyes, and cautiously backed away, snatching up the broken leg of a table as he went.
“Ssst! Mr. Wingate! Over here!”
Quickly Ashton glanced behind him to see Sarah crouched in an open doorway. Leaping over a fallen chair, he accepted her invitation with proper haste and charged through the portal, slamming it closed behind him and ramming home the bolt. The pair of them fled through the stacks of provender that filled the dimly lighted room until their flight was halted by the stout rear door that was stuck fast in its frame. Ashton lent a shoulder to open the reluctant barrier as the uproar rose in the tavern behind them. Finally after another forceful shove, the outside portal swung free, allowing them to escape. The alley was narrow and slippery with mud, but his guide knew every bend and puddle. She was little more than a dark shape flitting through the shadows as Ashton paused to barricade the rear exit. He followed apace and was within a step of a corner when the stout door crashed open again. The sudden shouts of the unruly gang attested to the fact that they had been seen, and the chase was on.
Ashton caught the slender arm of the woman and pulled her along with him as he raced around the corner of the shanty. They ran up the sloping incline of Silver Street, pushing every ounce of energy into their limbs. The way was muddy, and the wet mire sucked at Sarah’s ragged slippers, impeding their progress. With the pursuing ruffians rapidly closing the distance between them, there was no time to bend down and free the shoes from their cloth bindings. A wagon had been drawn across the street on the upper part of the hill, and they dashed around it, no more than a few short strides ahead of the following band. Shouts of victory were already being raised as the rowdies sensed the imminent capture of the pair. They followed around the end of the van, but slid and skidded to an uncertain halt as a slightly larger collection of darker shapes rushed out of the shadows into the lantern light. Sarah gasped as she found herself in the swarm and threw herself behind her champion, only to hear him chuckle.
“It’s all right. They’re friends.”
“You mean they were waiting here all along?” she questioned loudly as the two forces came together.
Ashton chuckled. “I always like to plan ahead when I can.”
He sobered abruptly as a bearded man seized his lapel, and he spun about, driving a hard fist into the other’s belly and following with a cross to the chin. The man’s head snapped back with the force of the blow, but Ashton was given no respite as another pressed for attention. Judd entered the fray with a zeal that nearly shriveled the valor of their adversaries. Not only was he quick and powerful, but with his long arms he could reach out a goodly distance and land hard blows, which his opponent had to survive in order to strike back. Not to be outdone, Sarah jumped on the back of another would-be attacker and clawed at his face from behind. A bite on his ear made him yowl in pain, and he redoubled his efforts to shake off the she-cat who rode him.
From every aspect it was a wild and mucky melee. Mud was plentiful, and with the momentum of hard-driving fists, many were sent sprawling or sliding through it on their backs or bellies. The dark ooze soon coated friend and foe alike until it became a chore to discern who was who in the meager light of the street lanterns. There were more than a few who took on the appearances of river monsters as large globs clung to them and created awesome shapes. Brief queries began to precede blows, and many, realizing their mistakes, turned away from companions to fight back to back against the enemy.
Still, the ranks of the Lower Town antagonists began to dwindle as one by one they slithered senseless into the muck or crept away, unable to summon the proper incentive to endure further punishment. Ashton was beginning to feel some hope for the outcome when a bellow of glee made him spin about. He found four ominous shapes advancing upon him from the edge of the fray. They were relatively untouched by the filth as if they had held themselves apart from it, but in any circumstance the four would have been recognizable by the broad, square shape of the one who led them. They hefted heavy cudgels in meaty fists and spread out as they moved in.
“Mr. Wingate, suh,” the brawny one addressed him with a chortle, “you’re ’bout to meet your maker.”
“Fo’ ’gainst one?” a deep voice questioned from nearby, and Ashton felt a measure of relief as he recognized
it instantly as Judd’s. “Somehow dat seem a mite unfair, but jes’ a mite, mind yo. How ’bout makin’ it fo’ to two?”
The heavy man gave no pause, but lunged at Ashton. He had been shamed in the tavern and relished the idea of delivering a death stroke to this one. Ashton sidestepped his rush and swung a smarting clout to the man’s head as he passed. The eager one bellowed in pain and lurched around like a wounded bull. Ashton struck again, this time a chopping blow at the arm that bore the bat. The weapon fell to the ground, but the bearlike assailant closed and grasped Ashton in a crushing embrace. He felt his ribs creak with the strain and heaved upward with his arms. The other’s grip slipped slightly, and Ashton heaved again until he found enough space to move his arms. He drove the knuckles of both hands up under the man’s lower ribs and was rewarded by a howl when the fellow staggered back with his arms spread in agony. Ashton followed his retreat and repeatedly slammed his fist into the other’s face, flattening the bulbous nose, then driving a blow into the flabby belly and another to the chin. Still, the man reached out to grasp with those massive arms. Ashton stepped back and, with all his weight behind it, sent a fist straight into the sagging mouth. The man’s head jerked back with the blow, and he staggered away in a daze. He had no time to clear his thoughts before three stumbling forms rushed past. Catching their cohort’s arm, they dragged him along with them as they fled, slipping and sliding down the hill. Ashton turned in wonderment to find Judd grinning broadly. The black man stood in a victorious stance with legs spread and arms akimbo.
“What happened?” Ashton asked in bemusement.
The black shrugged casually. “Ah reckon dey figger de odds was too much fo’ dem.”
“As usual, you took care of more than your share of the battling,” Ashton said with a grin.
Judd chuckled. “Ah ain’t sure what my share shoulda been, so Ah jes’ took what was left over.”
Ashton clapped him on the back and laughed. “Feel perfectly free to help yourself to any leftovers like that you might find.”
Judd gestured down the street at the fleeing rogues. “Yo reckon we oughta go aftah dem? Dere ain’t no short dandy among ’em, but Ah noticed de big one missin’ two fingers.”
“I’ll inform Harvey of their whereabouts and let him drag them in. I don’t have any more fight left in me.” He walked over to the wagon where Sarah was sitting with chin in hand. A cudgel dangled from the other hand, and it was obvious from the small heap of bodies that lay in the mud near the forward wheel that she had used the bat with wicked intent.
“There’s been times in the past year or so,” she muttered, “when I’ve wanted to do something like this, especially when I thought of the brute I had for a husband.”
Ashton cocked a brow at her in amusement. “Madam, I pity the man if you ever lay your hands on him.”
“Humph,” she responded. “I won’t pity him. I’ll probably have him drawn and quartered, not only for what he did to me, but for what he did to my family.” She blinked at the moisture that suddenly filled her eyes and, in some embarrassment, thrust her hand into the pocket of her muddy skirt. Dragging forth a ragged kerchief and applying it to her wet cheeks, she sniffed and composed herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wingate. I didn’t mean to bother you with my problems.”
“No bother at all, Sarah,” he said and, with gentle concern, inquired, “What will you do now? It will be too dangerous for you to go back to the Razorback Saloon.”
“I don’t know,” she answered quietly. “I have a brother who sailed to the Far East several years ago. I’m not sure when he’ll return, and he was always something of a black sheep anyway. He rebelled against the idea of taking over the business affairs when my father passed on.” She laughed without humor. “Believe it or not, Mr. Wingate, I was born into wealth. My father made a fortune maintaining several general stores and supplying them with goods he shipped in on his own vessels. I used to keep his books for him, so I know he was successful. Now my family has been utterly destroyed. My father is dead, the fortune is gone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my brother again.” She stared into space, as if her thoughts had taken her far beyond the moment; then she heaved a long sigh. “I think I only exist to see the day my husband receives his due.”
Thoughtfully Ashton wiped a glob of mud from his sleeve. “If you’ve had some experience keeping journals, I can give you work at the office of my shipping business.”
Sarah stared at him in wonder. “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, Mr. Wingate. What I did back there at Razorback Saloon I did out of gratitude. The fight started because of me, and you owe me nothing.”
He peered at her with a slowly spreading grin. “My business has a need for someone with a talent for ciphering and keeping books. If you don’t think yourself capable, I’ll try to find someone else.”
Her thin face took on a glow that nearly equaled the moon shining high overhead. “I’m capable, Mr. Wingate. I know I am.”
“Good.” The matter was settled. “You’d better come back with us to Belle Chêne tonight. It will be safer there. In the morning my wife can take you to get some clothes.” He smiled. “She’s not really from the madhouse, you know.”
Sarah smiled rather sadly. “I know that, Mr. Wingate.”
The hour was late when Ashton paused outside the back door to shed his muddy boots and as much attire as he dared. He had accomplished the first and had shrugged out of coat and vest when he became aware of muffled sobs coming from the kitchen. With worry crowding his mind, he leaped up the steps and entered the room in stockinged feet. Willabelle turned about with a start, clasping the hem of her apron over her mouth. From her eyes streamed a torrent of tears, and the red-eyed stares of Luella May and Bertha convinced him that they also shared in the sorrow. When Willabelle recognized the mud-smeared visage of her master, she drew a deep breath and began to sob with renewed vigor.
“Why are all of you crying?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Miz Lierin, massa,” Willabelle moaned, and the other two dissolved in a fresh spate of sobs and sniffles.
Sharp talons of dread raked Ashton’s heart, and his mind began to race. “Where is she?” he cried. “Has she been hurt?”
Again Willabelle supplied the information as she wept in her apron. “Gone, massa.”
“Gone? Gone where?” He was completely bewildered.
The housekeeper sniffed loudly and, wiping her face with the apron, drew a quavering breath as she struggled for control. “Ah don’ know, massa. Dat Mistah Somerton, he come out here an’ talk wid her for some time. Den Mis Lierin an’ him jes’ up an’ left widout nobody knowin’. Yo grandma an’ Miz Jenny…dey took to deir beds wid a powerful case o’ de mulligrubs.”
“But why?” Ashton asked, confused and hurting. “Why would she go?”
Willabelle lifted her massive shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Ah don’ know, massa. Maybe Mistah Somerton, he worked her into believin’ she was Miz Lenore.”
A great weight descended on Ashton’s shoulders. Of a sudden he was tired, and his body ached from the abuse it had taken. His mind labored to sort out the realities, but he felt the pressing burden of a mountain he could not climb. Blinking at the gathering moisture in his eyes, he turned away and blindly made his way to the door. “I’ll find her,” he mumbled. “I’ll start the search in the morning.” He paused in the portal and lamely gestured toward the back door, remembering that he had left Sarah somewhere outside. “I brought a woman home with me. Take care of her and give her something to wear.”
The wails began anew, and he turned his head to bend a gloomy regard on the housekeeper.
“What is it now?”
“Nothin’, ’ceptin’ Miz Lierin done gone off widout her clothes,” Willabelle choked out. “All dem purty gowns you bought, she left dem all behind. She left jes’ like some ghost, needin’ nothin’ an’ takin’ nothin’ wid her.”
Chapter Nine
LENORE or
Lierin. Which was it to be? The woman who was presented the choice debated the matter from the moment she left Belle Chêne. It was a cruel quandary she found herself in. She could hardly accept Lierin as her name without closing her mind to the presence of her father and the proof he had presented. If she selected the appellation of Lenore, she was denying all hopes of a future with Ashton. It was a war between emotions and reality, and no matter how she wanted it to be otherwise, the facts seemed to be tilting the scales heavily toward Malcolm Sinclair. The naked truths of life had a way of ignoring the longings of one’s heart. Ashton had thought his wife had drowned, and so had many other people. He had never found her, and in the three years following the accident, she had not been seen or heard from again. Surely, if Lierin had loved him and she were alive, she would have braved the fires of hell or the frigid climes of the North to come back to him. It was what she, the woman with one name too many, would have done.
Enter Malcolm Sinclair. Even before they had met the man, they had heard about his search for his wife. The innkeeper, having seen her, had thought she was the one. The portraits suggested that she looked more like Lenore than Lierin. Her father had also insisted that Malcolm was telling the truth. What more proof did she need?
The journey from Natchez to Biloxi gave her plenty of time to mull over the problem in her mind. It also gave her cause to lament that she had not brought a change of clothes. Had they traveled from Natchez to New Orleans by steamboat and then by ship to Biloxi, they would have greatly reduced their time en route, but Robert Somerton had brought a fine carriage to the city on the bluff, and by this mode he would return. They stopped two nights along the way, the first one finding whatever rest they could alongside the road, and the second acquiring questionable accommodations at an inn, the question being whether or not it was an improvement over the previous night.