“It wasn’t difficult,” Ira said. “He’d already sold her. I bought her from a man named Joaquín de Neve.”
“Gabriel’s father. How kind of him. I suppose he felt sorry for me after what—Well, that’s long past. Thank you so much. This is the most wonderful surprise I’ve ever had.”
He smiled, thinking it was probably true. Perhaps now there would be peace. Irene didn’t like to ride, so the two women would now be separated at least part of the day. He studied her thoughtfully as she continued to talk to the mare. She was thin and far too pale. Hopefully riding would gain her some color, and some weight. He wanted no one at the dinner party to suspect that she wasn’t Michelle’s mother. He privately thought she’d lost some of her looks after the months in Sacramento. Her lovely hair had lost its sheen and her green eyes their luster. When she turned suddenly to face him, he realized he’d been wrong about her eyes. At least now they were sparkling, full of life.
“I think we should visit Monsieur David again,” he said. “You will need some riding habits.”
“Oh no. I have my breeches—”
“God forbid,” Ira interrupted her, laughing. “We’ve already scandalized the matrons of society far too much as it is. The sight of you on horseback in pants would boil the pot over.”
“You’re right, of course,” Byrony said on a sigh, “I’ve never before owned a riding habit.”
He felt a stirring of anger at Madison DeWitt, but said only, “Now you’ll have at least three. One must be royal blue.”
It was Eileen who accompanied her to Monsieur David’s fancy shop on Kearny Street.
“Mr. Butler insists that one riding habit be royal blue,” Byrony said, nearly skipping in her pleasure to be out, alone, and free. She’d at first felt a bit odd about Eileen, having lived all her growing-up years in Boston where the few Negroes lived in isolated squalor. But Eileen wasn’t a slave anymore. California was a free state. Aunt Ida had hated slavery, and spoken volumes about the subject to whom ever would listen. Byrony had the sneaking idea that it was really the wealthy landowners in the South her aunt hated.
“You will look dandy in royal blue, Miz Butler,” Eileen said.
Byrony said, “What a lovely day it is. It’s so good to be among people again.”
“Lucky for us,” Eileen said. “Just you wait until the rains start. I heard tell last year that a mule sank in the mud on Montgomery Street and drowned.”
Byrony had insisted they walk to the downtown. It wasn’t far and she was bursting with energy. She saw now that Eileen, at least fifty pounds overweight, was wheezing a bit, and slowed her step, feeling guilty. “Oh, look, a saloon!”
“There are more of those places than a body can count,” Eileen said, keeping her eyes on the ground ahead of her.
Brent Hammond owned a saloon. Was the Miner’s Dream his? No. She shook her head. No, it wasn’t fine enough. Only the best for him. She felt Eileen move closer to her, and realized that men were beginning to stop to stare at her.
She wanted to smile at them. She wanted to smile at everybody.
Monsieur David, a dapper little man with snapping black eyes, greeted her personally in his opulent shop. There were other ladies in the outer room, and Byrony recognized one of them. It was Mrs. Saxton.
After she’d picked out the materials she wanted, she walked shyly to the woman. “Ma’am? I don’t suppose you remember me. I was aboard the Scarlet Queen last spring when there was that—trouble. I’m so glad you’re fine now. My name is Byrony. Byrony Butler.”
Chauncey Saxton knew all about Mrs. Butler. She hadn’t really noticed her at all that long-ago night aboard the Scarlet Queen. But she’d had her ears filled the past months. This glowing, diffident girl didn’t at all look like a trollop adventuress. But of course, it was only that prig Penelope Stevenson who had said that.
“Yes, now everything is very fine,” Chauncey said with a smile. Seeing the curiosity in the young woman’s eyes, she added the few words of explanation she and Del had offered everyone else: “The man who tried to do away with me aboard the Scarlet Queen is long gone, thank God, as well as the villain who had hired him. It was all a ghastly experience, but my husband and I have survived it. Well, enough of that,” she said, patting Byrony’s hand. “It’s good to see you again. Do call me Chauncey.”
“What a lovely name,” Byrony said. “So unusual, but perhaps not in England,” she added.
“No, it’s unusual everywhere,” Chauncey said. “As for your name, I fancy your mother was enraptured of Lord Byron?”
“Yes. I’ve always counted myself lucky, for she could have named me George, after the king.”
The two women laughed.
“Madame,” Monsieur David said to Byrony. “Excuse me a moment. I have your measurements, but I think perhaps you are a bit thinner than you were last spring.”
“Make them up the same size, monsieur,” Byrony said. “I fancy I’ll be back to my same figure in no time at all.”
She didn’t look like she’d had a baby, Chauncey thought, but then again, what did she know about children? “I’m trying, sweetheart, I’m trying.” She nearly laughed aloud as she thought of her husband’s nightly words.
“Miz Butler, we should be getting home,” Eileen said.
The smile left Byrony’s face, but just for a moment. “Mrs. Saxton, I mean, Chauncey, we’re giving a dinner party next Friday evening. Do you think you and your husband could come?”
How could anyone turn down that sweet request? “We would be delighted, Byrony. My husband is acquainted with your husband, of course, but I know him only as a gentleman who always tips his hat to me.”
“Oh, thank you. My husband hasn’t gone over the guest list with me yet, but you and your husband must be on it.”
This naive bit of information made Chauncey pat Byrony’s hand. “If we’re not, please write us in.”
Chauncey Saxton stood quietly in the middle of Monsieur David’s salon, watching the black woman guide Byrony Butler out the door. She was a very sweet girl. She should speak to Agatha about her. And she was close to Chauncey’s age. There were so few young ladies in San Francisco, and Chauncey felt a rush of optimism. Anyone would be more pleasant than that snit Penelope Stevenson. Why didn’t she marry someone and move somewhere, hopefully out of San Francisco.
“Eileen,” Byrony was saying outside the shop, “let’s walk around a bit. I’ve seen so little of the city, and it’s such a fine day.”
“Very well, Miz Butler,” she said, “but not too long.”
Byrony watched two Chinese carrying impossibly heavy loads of lumber on their narrow shoulders across the street. Pigtails, she thought; how very odd. There were so many men, some dressed in the height of fashion and others looking as if they hadn’t changed their clothes in months. She drew a deep breath of sheer pleasure. So many different smells, so many different kinds of people.
“Miz Butler,” Eileen suddenly hissed in her ear, “keep your eyes down.”
Byrony blinked, but before she obeyed, she saw two very beautiful women walking toward them. There were loud compliments from passing men, and whistles, and the women giggled and preened.
She wanted to stare, but she felt Eileen’s disapproval. Suddenly she was looking straight at a man’s throat; then she bumped into him.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I fear I wasn’t watching my progress.”
She stiffened as straight as Eileen. His hand dropped from her arm as if he’d been burned. Slowly she raised her head and stared into Brent Hammond’s dark blue eyes.
“You?”
“What, no flour today? No, I suppose not. You’re far beyond your flour days, aren’t you?”
Dear God, he looked so—beautiful. She swallowed, trying to build up the anger he’d made her feel so many months before. But she couldn’t. “Hello, Mr. Hammond,” she said. It was too soon. She hadn’t had the chance to put him into proper perspective.
She’s staring at me like a
lost lamb, Brent thought. Damn, he’d hoped he wouldn’t see her, at least until—
“Miz Butler,” Eileen said. “We really must be on our way.”
Byrony looked at her with vague eyes. “In just a moment, Eileen. Mr. Hammond is a friend of Mr. Butler’s. I haven’t seen him since our return. Please, why don’t you step into that shop and see if they’ve any riding hats.”
Eileen shot her a puzzled look. “Very well, Miz Butler. Just a few minutes, mind.”
“What is she, your keeper?”
“She has been with Ira and Irene for a number of years. She is protective, I suppose.”
“You need protection, believe me. If I weren’t with you, you’d be besieged by any number of hopeful men.”
“I love San Francisco,” she said. “All the noise and the activity. I know that I’m truly alive here. And all the men are very nice. They’re not forward, not really, just lonely, I think.”
“You’re looking remarkably fit,” Brent said, interrupting her.
“Why ever shouldn’t I?”
“Cut line, lady. For a woman who’s given birth, quite recently, I expect, you look very fine indeed.”
“Oh.”
“Although you are a bit skinny, I’d say.” She felt his eyes roving over her. “I would have thought that those lovely breasts of yours would be a bit fuller.”
“Please, Mr. Hammond, don’t—”
“You’re right, of course, Mrs. Butler. It’s no concern of mine, is it?” Damn her. He’d hoped when he saw her again that he would be able to look through her, with no stirring in his guts. “How long have you been back, ma’am?”
“Two weeks. This is the first time I’ve been downtown. That odd-looking man over there, who is he?”
Brent turned and smiled at Jeremy Glossop, a newcomer to San Francisco who fancied himself the epitome of a civilized gentleman. “He’s from England and a terrible gambler.”
“How is your saloon, sir? Where is it?”
“Near Portsmouth Square. The Wild Star.”
The sound of his voice made her feel incredibly warm. She didn’t want to leave him, not just yet, particularly when he was not insulting her.
“Is business good?”
“Quite. In a town like San Francisco, men have little else to do save gamble, drink, and whore. Of course, we are gaining culture by the day. By January, I hear we’ll even have some gaslights installed, to discourage thieves, of course. And realize, please, ma’am, that we have theater groups coming from all over the world to our fair city. Unfortunately, you missed Lola Montez. She’s living in the gold country now, I believe, in Grass Valley.” Why was he carrying on like this? Because you don’t want her to leave, you fool. She was staring up at him with such intensity that he wanted to rip her clothes off on the spot and ravish her. He laughed at himself. A woman who’d given birth as recently as she had couldn’t indulge in sex for a while yet.
“How is your child, Miz Butler?” He saw hurt in her eyes, and it angered him.
“Her name is Michelle,” Byrony said calmly. “She is quite well, thank you.”
“Does she look like you or your husband?”
“She has the look of the Butlers, I understand. Very fair with blue eyes.”
The look of the Butlers? Hell, she was fair; only her eyes were that soft green color, deep and mysterious. He wanted to ask her if her husband was good to her. Stupid thought. Her gown was expensive. Her doting husband probably gave her everything she asked for. And her husband probably understood well her promiscuous tendencies, else why would he have that huge Negro woman with her? To protect her or to keep her from making assignations with other men?
“Ah,” he said, “your protector.”
Byrony would very much have liked to dismiss Eileen with a magic wave of her hand. But she couldn’t.
She was gazing up at him with that lost, helpless look of hers, and he forced himself to shrug and say, “A pleasure to see you, ma’am. Do give my best to your husband.”
“Yes,” Byrony said, “I will.”
She listened to Eileen describe a bonnet she’d found, but her eyes remained on his tall figure until he was lost from her view.
NINE
Chauncey Saxton looked about the large dining table at all the other guests. Ira Butler had chosen well, she thought. The thirteen guests, for the most part, were kind people and were treating the new Mrs. Butler very well. Byrony looked lovely, gowned in yellow silk, a rich yellow that made her hair look like smooth honey and her eyes a vivid, sparkling green. A very nice girl, Chauncey thought, and understandably nervous. Her gaze turned to Irene Butler, seated now at her brother’s right. The little scene they’d been treated to upon entering the dining room still seemed to bother her. She was very quiet, speaking only rarely to anyone except her brother.
A ridiculous mixup, Chauncey thought, feeling compassion for Byrony, who’d tried to smooth it over. How could Irene have so improperly had herself seated at the foot of the table? Surely she was used to her brother’s wife by now. It was obvious that Irene hadn’t relinquished the mistress’s position to her sister-in-law, indeed, had taken for granted that it was her honored place. Poor Ira. It had been he who spoke quietly to his sister and removed her to his end of the table, leaving Byrony pale and smiling nervously.
Chauncey suddenly met the eyes of her nemesis, Penelope Stevenson, across the table, and gave her a sugary smile. A pity that the bouquet of flowers wasn’t just a foot to the left; then she wouldn’t have to manufacture that false smile. Bunker Stevenson, her wealthy father, was carrying on with a tale of his adventures in Panama. Chauncey’s eyes met Agatha Newton’s, seated on Byrony’s right, and Agatha winked. Bless Agatha. Chauncey had told her about Byrony, and that good woman was regaling her with her own special brand of charm.
“Do try the pork, love, I promise it won’t attack you.”
“I have and it didn’t,” she said to her husband.
“You look preoccupied, Chauncey. Is there some man I should begin to worry about?”
“Oh drat, I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice. But Bunker is so very—well, how can I put it?”
“Boring? Fatuous?”
“One of these days, Del Saxton, I am going to have the last word.”
She kicked him under the table.
“You’ve made no changes as yet I see, my dear,” Agatha Newton was saying to Byrony. “I’ve always thought that this room and the drawing room needed more of a woman’s touch. Of course, Irene doesn’t say boo without her brother’s approval.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Byrony said, her attention on Brent Hammond, who was flirting outrageously with a very lovely girl whose name Byrony wouldn’t soon forget. Penelope the Snob, Byrony had christened her, after the young lady had acknowledged meeting her with only the slightest nod of her head.
Agatha Newton, broad in the beam with a lovely, motherly smile, wished she could reassure the new Mrs. Butler. The girl was naturally nervous. After all, this was her first introduction to the people who counted in San Francisco. Pity that all of them counted, but what could one do? She followed Byrony’s gaze to the utterly delicious man next to Penelope Stevenson. She’d not met him before this evening, but had heard Horace speak of him. “Damned smart young man,” her enthusiastic husband had said on more than one occasion. “Old James Cora isn’t too pleased with the quick success he’d had with the Wild Star.”
What a handsome devil he was, Agatha thought, gently sipping at the very fine French wine from Ira’s cellar. She’d stare at him too if she were twenty years younger.
The tender pork tasted like year-old bread to Byrony. She hadn’t looked at the guest list, so it was her own fault that she’d suddenly lost her voice when Brent Hammond strolled into the drawing room. I must act natural, she’d told herself over and over. He means nothing to me, nothing. I can’t act like a silly twit, mooning over a man who despises me. I am a married lady, and that’s the end to it.
Dumb w
ords that meant nothing. Thank God that very nice Tony Dawson was paying a lot of attention to Mrs. Newton. She was a very nice lady, but Byrony couldn’t think of anything to say. She heard the kind voice of Saint Morris, San Francisco’s finest doctor, according to Ira. She forced herself to turn to him. Like most of the gentlemen, he was young, not even thirty. He didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever seen in Boston, pampered and soft-handed. More like a lumberjack.
“I’d like to lay eyes on that baby of yours, Mrs. Butler,” Saint Morris said. “Ira hasn’t stopped raving about her. Calls her his little angel and all that nonsense new fathers say.”
“I take it you’re not a father, Dr. Morris.”
His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Been too busy, ma’am, to tell you the truth. At least that’s what I always tell myself. I meet a nice lady now and again, but I can’t seem to bring myself up to scratch. Call me Saint.”
“Only if you will call me Byrony. Were you truly christened Saint?”
“That’s a long story, Byrony. A long story indeed.” He gave her a big grin, revealing beautiful white teeth. “If I told you my real name, I expect you’d howl with laughter and call me a missionary.”
Byrony leaned toward him, enjoying herself. “Is it Horatio?” she whispered. “Or perhaps Milton or Percival?”
One of his big hands covered hers briefly, and he shook his head. “Ah, you should have known my dear mother. What a wit that woman had.”
“I see I’m getting nothing out of you, Saint.”
“Nope, not a thing. Delicious meal, but you’re not eating much, Byrony. If I believed in the efficacy of tonics, I’d prescribe one for you.”
“Ah,” she said, “so you didn’t come West in one of those covered wagons as a medicine man?”
“Not at all, more’s the pity. It would have been more pleasant if I had.”
“I suppose that’s another long, very interesting story you’re not about to tell me.”