“Thomas, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Women,” Thomas scoffed, biting down on the awful pain in his ribs. “Watering pots and silly twits, all of you. Cut line, Jules. You heard Saint—I’ll be fine.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot, dammit! But birds didn’t want to kill, he thought, and to kill John Bleecher would give him the greatest pleasure at the moment.
Jules leaned down and kissed her brother’s pale cheek. She stroked her fingertips over his bruised jaw. “I love you, Thomas. We will both build a fine life, you’ll see.”
“Lord, I know that,” he scoffed. Anything to keep away those damnable tears.
Jules kissed her brother again, and stepped back.
“You take care, Thomas,” Saint said, shaking the boy’s hand.
“Yes, Saint, I shall.” He lowered his voice. “Please take good care of my sister. She is so . . . hurt.”
Saint felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat. “I will, Thomas, I will.”
They were not to escape Reverend DuPres’s house with no more confrontations. Sarah, her eyes puffy from crying, her face pale as wax, was standing in the hall below, waiting for them. When she saw her sister, she screamed, “You miserable bitch! God, I hope you die, you don’t deserve to live!”
Saint squeezed Jules’s hand. He wanted to feel some sympathy for Sarah, but couldn’t seem to find any within him. He said in a mocking, cold voice, “You are a bore, Miss DuPres. Let’s just hope you aren’t a pregnant bore.”
“Shut up, damn you!”
“Such language from a missionary’s daughter,” Saint said in that same mocking voice. “So, John Bleecher has left you high and dry, so to speak. After he tried to kill your brother. And before that, he tried to rape your sister. You have excellent taste in men, it would appear.”
“I hate you,” Sarah hissed, her hands fisted at her sides.
“Were I you, Miss Sarah, I should be careful what my dear father overheard me say. I wouldn’t put it past him to toss you out on your ear for your . . . lascivious leanings. After all, how much is a father expected to take? Two sluts for daughters? Come, Jules. We have a date with the Oregon.”
Jules followed him silently from her father’s house. She paused a moment in the road and stared back. “So much unhappiness,” she said in a low voice. “Poor Thomas.”
“Yes and yes,” Saint agreed. “You are well out of it, sweetheart. And Thomas will be out of it soon.”
It was evening, and Saint knew he couldn’t tarry any longer on deck. He was alone now, the other few passengers having retired sometime before. As he stared out over the endless expanse of ocean, he remembered the first time he’d ever seen the sea. He’d been with his Uncle Rafe fishing on the Chesapeake Bay. Then they’d ridden to the Atlantic and the thirteen-year-old Saint had wanted only to sit on a rock and stare at the savage beauty of the crashing waves. He pulled away from the railing and sighed. He’d seen the small cabin, the single narrow bed, and gulped. Well, he would simply have to deal with it. After all, he was a man, not a randy boy.
“Damn you, shut up,” he said to the randy boy as he strode along the companionway and quietly opened the door to their cabin. He pulled up short. Jules stood in the middle of the small space, her hands clutched around her stomach, bent over.
“Jules, what’s the matter?” He was at her side in an instant, his gut wrenching in sudden fear. To his surprise, she straightened immediately and flushed a vivid red. He cocked a brow at her. “I’m waiting,” he said. “What’s wrong? Do you hurt? Are you feeling seasick?”
“No,” she whispered, looking utterly miserable. “I’m not seasick. You know I’m never seasick.”
“Then what’s the matter?” At her continued pained silence he said sharply, “If you don’t talk to me now, I’m going to poke and prod around.”
“My . . . stomach hurts,” she said in the thinnest voice he’d ever heard.
“Your stomach? Was it something you ate at dinner?”
She shook her head, mute.
“Jules . . .” he said, his voice threatening.
“My stomach is cramping,” she said finally.
“Ah,” he said, relief flooding through him. “You’ve begun your monthly flow.” He saw that she was ready to sink through the floor in embarrassment. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll give you some laudanum in water. It will make you sleep, and when you wake up you’ll feel just fine. All right?”
“All right,” she whispered.
Now, he thought as he pored several drops of laudanum into a glass of water, he wouldn’t have to worry about his body behaving in a reprehensible fashion. He had five days of enforced nobility. He silently handed her the glass of water. She drank all of it, and just as silently handed back the glass.
“Now,” Saint said, “why don’t you get into your nightgown? You’ll be very sleepy soon.” And the last thing I want to do is undress you myself.
There was no screen, and he left her alone for a good five minutes. When he walked back into the cabin, she was sitting on the side of the bed, swathed neck to toe in a white nightgown.
“Do you feel any better?”
She shook her head, not looking at him.
“Do you have bad cramps every month?”
She shook her head, still not looking at him.
“Does your back hurt?”
“No,” she said, looking now at her toes.
There was a single chair in the small cabin. Saint sat down and patted his thighs. “Come here, Jules.”
She looked at him, horrified. He only smiled at her encouragingly.
Slowly, color fluctuating alarmingly in her face, Jules padded over to him. He held out his arms, and she sank down onto his legs. He gently pulled her against him and held her.
He felt her tense with cramp.
“It will be gone soon,” he said, lightly kissing her hair.
“It’s . . . it’s nothing to you,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Nothing? What it is is natural. However, I do not believe in pain when it can be alleviated. Now, you just relax, and I’ll tell you about Louis XIV.”
“He was a French king,” Jules said.
“Yes, in the seventeenth century. He was called the Sun King. In any case, when he was born, he came into the world with two teeth. The queen, his mother, was appalled, and very wisely refused to put him to her breast. You can imagine the wariness of the two wet nurses. I remember reading that they were well compensated for their stoicism.”
He felt her ease, felt her head fall against his chest. He continued, his voice growing softer, “There’s another story about poor Louis. It seems that he had a rather embarrassing problem that involved his backside. He had what’s called a fistula. The surgeons operated successfully, and the courtiers, to show their sympathy for their king, proceeded to have similar operations!”
Her breathing was even and soft. She was asleep.
“For a while very few gentlemen in the court were able to sit down.” He eased her back into the circle of his arm. Her thick dark lashes were fanned against her pale cheeks. He hadn’t really noticed before that her brows and lashes were a dark brown, not a washed-out red as one would expect. And not one single freckle, even on the bridge of her nose. A nice straight nose, he thought. And a lovely mouth, a passionate mouth, the randy boy within him added. He continued to study her, perhaps really seeing her for the first time. “You’ve grown into quite a beauty,” he said softly, lightly touching his fingertips to her soft throat. “And now you’re my wife . . . and my problem.” No, he amended to himself, his responsibility.
He carried his sleeping wife to the bed and gently laid her on her back. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. He stripped off his clothes and slipped in beside her. The damned bed was so narrow he could feel the warmth from her body.
When he awoke the next morning, he realized that he was precariously close to falling off the bed. Jules, he saw, turning to face her, was
sprawled on her stomach, her arms and legs spread, as if she were floating in the water. He was normally a light sleeper, but he’d never stirred, even when she’d begun her takeover. He smiled, then rose and bathed.
Dressed, he returned to the bed and sat down beside her. “Jules,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder.
A very heavy sleeper, he thought, and shook her again.
“Hmmm?” Jules pulled up to her elbows and slewed her head around. “Michael? What’s the matter? Where . . . ?”
“We’re aboard the Oregon and it’s morning, and how do you feel?”
Jules ducked her head and said in a muffled voice, “I’m just fine, thank you.”
“Good. Why don’t you get dressed and join me in the dining room?”
When Jules entered the long, narrow dining room on the main deck of the Oregon, she saw a knot of men, her husband in the middle of it. As she neared, she heard laughter, then Michael’s voice saying, “To this day, it’s called ‘burking.’ ”
“Good God,” one heavily whiskered gentlemen laughed, “and to think I’d believed medical science had advanced to the point of curing people, not killing them!”
Saint laughed, then spied his wife. He excused himself. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“You’re quite a storyteller,” she said, remembering his outrageous tale about Louis XIV. “What’s all this about ‘burking’?”
“In Scotland, not very long ago, a man used to supply the medical school with dead bodies for dissection. Unfortunately, he got into the deplorable habit of strangling people to get corpses. And that was called ‘burking.’ ”
“His name was Burk, I presume?”
“Yep, and he was hanged, finally. After some sixteen-odd folk ceased to exist due to his greed. The medical school paid handsomely for bodies.”
“You have quite a talent,” she observed.
“It comes in handy, like last night,” he added, smiling down at her. “Patients, in my experience, need to be distracted. You’re sure you feel fine this morning?”
“Please . . . yes.”
“We’re married, goose,” he said, tucking her hand through his arm. “And I’m a doctor. Two valid reasons why you should never be embarrassed with me.”
“If you say so,” she said doubtfully.
“I do say so. Now, onward to food. I have a lot of body to maintain.”
The day was warm, the weather calm and clear. Jules became acquainted with the remainder of the passengers, met Captain Drake, and listened to her husband charm everyone who came into his orbit.
She felt little or no embarrassment until Michael left her again that night so she could change into her nightgown.
She wasn’t asleep when Saint slipped into the bed beside her. She reached out to touch his arm, and realized he was quite naked. She gulped.
“Michael? Would you tell me a story?”
He laughed and turned onto his side to face her. It was probably a fine idea, he thought. He himself needed to be distracted this time. “Well,” he began, “let me see. Did you ever hear the story . . . ? No, I think I’ll tell you about some of my friends in San Francisco. You’ve probably heard me mention their names—Delaney and Chauncey Saxton.”
She nodded.
“Well, Del is a very rich man. He wasn’t, not at first. He was one of the argonauts—that means he came to California in 1849 with the first group of men to search for gold. He found it. Unlike most others, he used the gold he’d discovered wisely. He owns a bank, is a partner in many other businesses in the city, and owns three or four ships that go to and from the Far East. He’ll make you laugh within three minutes of meeting him. He’s very witty, you see, and gives his witty wife, Chauncey, quite a time of it. She’s English, beautiful, and now a mother. She’s also very rich in her own right. You’ll like her, I’m sure of it.”
“Won’t she think I’m . . . well, not a very nice person, after what happened?”
“Jules, if you don’t stop that foolishness, I’m going to beat you!”
He reached out his hand to touch her shoulder, but instead connected with her soft breast. He sucked in his breath and drew back his hand as if burned.
“I’m sorry,” Jules gasped.
“No, no,” Saint managed. He grinned ruefully into the darkness. “You see, Jules, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with my wife.” In fact, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with anyone, much less lying in the same bed and not making love. “Are you sleepy now?”
“Yes,” she said, lying without hesitation.
She lay awake a long time, listening to her husband’s deep, even breathing.
Saint, the light sleeper, awoke the next morning aware that something was very strange. Jules was lying on top of him, her head resting against his throat. His manhood was hard and throbbing against her soft belly.
“Damn,” he said very softly. He realized then that he was lying in the middle of the bed, and in her sleep, she’d just tried to find some space. “Damn,” he said again. Very slowly he eased her off him.
“Michael?” she said in a sleepy, slurred voice.
“Yes, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.” Please!
To his relief and regret, she did, curled up on her side, her hand fisted beneath her cheek.
When he rose from the bed, he cursed himself, even as he turned again to look at her. Her nightgown was bunched about her thighs—long, slender legs, so white and so soft-looking. He pulled a sheet over her.
13
Saint learned in the next several days that his young wife was quite a storyteller in her own right. He came into the dining room one afternoon after treating a fellow passenger for an abscess on his leg, and saw Jules sitting at a table, her hands gesticulating while she talked. He moved closer, saying nothing, his eyes intent on her vibrant face. When he’d known her as a young girl, he’d thought her fascinatingly aware of everything around her, but in the endlessly curious manner of children. Not so, he had come to realize. She’d managed to nurture her curiosity, her complete excitement with life itself. Even the events of the previous month and a half had only dimmed her spirit for a while.
“The whole thing about the kapus, you see, was to curtail the native women’s freedom. They couldn’t eat with the men, couldn’t eat certain foods—bananas, coconuts, pork, even baked dog!”
“Good heavens,” said Miss Mary Arkworth, “what was there to eat then?” Miss Arkworth, who had lived on Oahu for a number of years and who knew the answer very well, could have added that all the kapus were supposedly religious in nature, but she didn’t. She was enjoying the very bright Mrs. Morris’ enthusiasm too much to dampen it.
“Sounds fine to me,” said Nathan Benson. “Let them eat cake if they’re not allowed baked dog.”
“Well, Mr. Benson,” Jules said in a tart voice, “it’s all well and good to joke about it, but there was a story about a little five-year-old girl who ate a banana. Instead of killing her, which was the punishment for breaking a kapu, they ripped out her right eye.”
Amid the gasps of outrage, Saint asked, “Weren’t all the eating kapus gotten rid of by a woman?”
She smiled at him, as if he were a very bright pupil, and nodded. Her audience quieted, leaning forward to listen. “You see,” she said in a confidential voice, “after King Kamehameha I died, his queen, Kaahumanu, announced to her young son that she would be his kuhina-nui, or vice-king.”
“Smart lady,” said Mr. Benson.
“Indeed,” said Jules. “And she was a very brave woman. To break the eating kapu, she ate a banana in front of the king, Liholiho. He, dear boy, ignored it. Then she had the temerity to eat a meal in his presence!” Jules paused dramatically.
A natural storyteller, Saint thought, smiling at her.
“What happened?” Miss Arkworth demanded.
“Nothing, not a single thing. Kaahumanu broke him down. Finally, at a banquet, the king went to the women’s table and began piling pieces of food into his mouth. The vice-king—a
woman—won!”
“What became of her?” asked Mrs. Benson.
“She died of old age,” said Jules.
“Odd,” said Saint. “I thought she died from overeating.”
Jules shot him an impish grin. “Well, like most Hawaiian women, she was immensely fat. That, you know, is what is considered beautiful on the islands.”
“Now, Jules,” Saint said when they were alone a few minutes later, “Victorian prejudices have started taking hold. Many of the Hawaiian women are forcing their healthy bodies into those awful whalebone corsets. You didn’t tell all the truth.”
She nodded and said sadly, “Civilization is not always such a wonderful thing, I think. And,” she added, grinning up at him, “I didn’t want to ruin the impact of my story.”
Saint cupped her face between his large hands. “You, Mrs. Morris, are a natural.”
“A natural what?” Jules asked, her eyes coming to rest on his mouth. She felt a bit breathless and somewhat strange, as if his fingers and his palms were warming her from the inside out.
Saint felt her lean toward him and immediately dropped his hands, saying lightly as he did so, “A natural teller of tall and not-so-tall tales. Now, would you care to stroll on deck?”
“I suppose even naturals must have exercise,” she said.
His dreams became vividly erotic, jerking him awake to stare into the darkness, his body covered with sweat and pounding with painful need. He rose several mornings before dawn, unable to lie quietly next to Jules, listening to her even breathing, the soft sighs that made him wonder what her dreams were made of. Certainly not of sex, he told himself. Perhaps of fear and dread of men, but not of sex, not of him.
They were but four days out of San Francisco when he could bear it no longer. He stayed in the small parlor where the gentlemen smoked and gambled until very late, unable to face lying down in that damned narrow bed beside his young wife. He drank too much, lost one hundred dollars at vingt-et-un, and made his way to the cabin well past midnight.