Etienne DuPres’s house was on Luakini Street, just one block behind the Baldwin house. It was set back from the busy street, its white clapboards gleaming in the sun. Saint heard Jules draw in her breath when she saw her brother, Thomas, clad only in trousers and an open white shirt, turn onto the street and wave to John Bleecher. Saint saw the shock on his face, but Thomas, unlike John, showed no hesitation. He gave a loud whoop and ran full tilt to his sister and swung her up into his arms.
“Thomas,” Jules whispered, burying her face in her brother’s neck.
Saint saw the front door to the DuPres house open and Aurelia DuPres slowly walk onto the narrow veranda. Saint saw her clutch at her flat bosom, then faint dead away. He’d forgotten how damned vaporish the woman was. Doubtless all the wretched clothes and tight corset she wore didn’t help matters.
By the time he reached her side, there were people everywhere, and pandemonium.
Saint had also forgotten how much he disliked Etienne DuPres. There was no joy in the man, only grim, unremitting purpose. He was tall and very thin, his black broadcloth suit making him appear gaunt. His eyes were not sparkling and alive like his daughter’s, but a pale cold gray. His hair was thinner now, the black streaked with white.
They were all seated in the small parlor, Jules’s mother fluttering her hands, Sarah, Jules’s older sister, silent and stiff, watching her sister, her lips pursed. Thomas was carrying on in his exuberant fashion, seated cross-legged on the floor beside Jules’s chair. Even though he was dark-haired and tall like his father, he had Jules’s openness and joy.
Etienne DuPres stood tall and silent next to a fireplace that was never used. He’d hugged his daughter briefly, then set her away. For a moment Saint thought he looked to be in pain—a good sign, he thought, that he’d missed and grieved for his younger daughter. Etienne DuPres said now to Saint, “How did you get my daughter?”
Saint smiled toward Jules and said pleasantly, “You are the luckiest family alive. Your daughter is safe and well.”
Before he could explain further, Reverend DuPres said, his voice even colder, “We understood that Juliana had drowned. She was forbidden to swim, but that is another matter. I would like to know what happened to her, and how you got her.”
“I was taken by a man who wanted to sell me,” Jules said. “In San Francisco. Michael saved me.”
There was a moan from Mrs. DuPres, and Saint prayed the damned woman wouldn’t faint again. Sarah said in a shrill voice, “Taken? Whatever do you mean? Why would anyone do that?”
Jules said in her clear, sweet voice, “His name is Jameson Wilkes. I believe you’ve met him, Father. He decided I was well-enough-looking, and took me to San Francisco. He wanted to sell me to a man so I would be a mistress.”
Thomas DuPres roared, “Damnation, Jules! That miserable bastard . . . God, I’ll kill him!”
“You will be silent, Thomas,” Reverend DuPres said. “So,” he continued, looking down at his daughter, “you were in the company of this evil man for two weeks, and he debauched you.”
Jules paled. “If you mean by ‘debauched’ that he . . . hurt me, no, he didn’t. He wanted to save me because he would get more money for me if I were a virgin.”
“How dare you speak like that in front of your mother and sister! Merciful Lord, to be cursed with such—”
“That’s quite enough.” Saint rose, his very size intimidating, his quiet voice instantly reducing Reverend DuPres to silence. “Your daughter is safe and well. She was not debauched. And even if she had been, I don’t see that it would matter. What matters, sir, is that your daughter is with you again.”
Etienne DuPres said nothing. He’d done his best by the girl. But she was willful, just as her scarlet-haired grandmother had been. She shouldn’t have come back. He felt rage flow through him, rage and shame. He looked at her again, then walked from the room.
Jules sat before the small dressing table, slowly brushing her hair. She didn’t look up when Sarah came into their bedroom.
“I am glad you are alive, Juliana,” Sarah said.
Then why do I want to shiver at your tone? Jules wondered. “Thank you,” she said, not breaking count with her hairbrush.
“You’ve been gone well over a month. Everyone was very upset. Father preached a marvelous sermon for you. He touched but once on your disobedience and your perfidy in swimming in the ocean.”
“Now he can unpreach it,” Jules said.
Sarah, as was her habit, stepped behind the narrow screen to undress. “John is going to marry me.”
Jules raised her head at that, looking toward the screen in the mirror. His affections were short-lived, she thought. But she wasn’t angry at him; she was immensely relieved. “I am glad for you,” she said. “John is very nice.”
Sarah fingered the buttons on her long nightgown. “I saw how he was looking at you this afternoon. But he won’t go back to you. Not now. Not after what you’ve done.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Jules said.
“So you say,” Sarah said. “As for Saint, well, you’re better off with him. You should have stayed with him.”
I wanted to, but he didn’t want me.
Jules turned on the stool and eyed her sister silently for a long moment. She would be pretty if only she would smile—not just her mouth, but her eyes. Her hair, unlike Jules’s, was a soft brown and didn’t fly about her head in wild curls. “Sarah,” she asked quietly, “do you love me?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Sarah said finally, “but I want John.”
“But you said you’re marrying him! You have him, Sarah. He has nothing to do with me!”
Suddenly Sarah seemed to collapse. She covered her face with her hands, and wrenching sobs broke from her throat.
Jules, appalled, quickly went to her. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”
The sobs continued, and Jules stood helplessly, watching her sister’s slender body shake.
“John means nothing to me, please believe that,” Jules said. “He loves you. Why else would he marry you?”
“You fool,” Sarah whispered, raising her tearstained face. “He went crazy when Kanola’s body was discovered and we were told that you’d been with her. Crazy, do you hear? But I wanted him, Juliana. I’ve always wanted him. He grieved. And I . . . well, I comforted him.”
“Well, of course you did. I’m certain he comforted you too.”
“You stupid fool!” Sarah nearly screamed at her. “I let him have me! That’s why he’s marrying me now. He has to! Dear God, I could be pregnant right now, and here you are, back again. I hate you!”
Jules stepped back, her face white. Very slowly she stripped off her white nightgown and began to dress. It didn’t occur to her to step behind the screen, and her sister’s shocked gasp only made her smile, a small, bitter smile.
“What are you doing now?”
“Nothing,” Jules said.
“He did debauch you, just like Father said. Taking off your clothes without a thought! It’s disgusting.”
Jules turned a puzzled look to her sister. “Didn’t you take off your clothes with John?”
Sarah shuddered. “No, of course not. It was dark. I just let him . . . well, I know that you understand what he did.” She shuddered again, and Jules suddenly felt very sorry for John Bleecher.
She finished dressing in silence.
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” Jules said, and quietly slipped from the room. The house was dark. Everyone was in bed. Jules carefully propped open the back kitchen door and walked quickly toward the beach along the back streets. She could hear sounds of revelry—men’s laughter and women’s giggles—and now it had a new meaning to her. She saw not a soul. When she reached the deserted beach, she stripped off the hot, restricting gown and walked slowly down the beach toward the ocean, clad only in her short chemise. There was a half-moon, and as usual, the sky was clear, the stars dazzlingly bright. Gentle waves crested with barely a sound
and slithered onto the wet sand. She didn’t wade into the water, but skirted the waves and sat on an outcropping rock, hugging her arms about her knees.
She’d been gone for such a short time, really, but everything had changed. And everyone. No, that wasn’t true. She saw her sister’s contorted face, the streaming tears. Priggish Sarah had made love to a man. She’d obviously disliked it.
Jules saw her own life as series of days spent in silent despair and nights spent thinking of what she couldn’t have, and swallowed down the hated tears.
It was as if she’d conjured him up. She sat very still, watching Michael, magnificently naked, stride through the surf toward the beach. He was running his hands through his thick hair, then shaking himself like a mongrel dog.
As he came closer, Jules let her eyes fall down his body. She had never before seen a naked man—only Michael when he’d worn those meager pants. Now he wore nothing. The hair was thick on his chest, narrowing as it snaked down over his flat belly. She knew that men had things on the front of their bodies, and that’s where babies came from. Men stuck themselves into women. For a moment she stared at him objectively, wondering how it would work, and how it would feel to touch him there. How it would feel to have him pressed against her, naked.
He turned a moment, looking back over the water. Her fingers tingled as her eyes traveled down his back to his buttocks, to his long legs. Old Lanakila carved figures in smooth, glowing wood. Michael looked as sculptured and perfect as the most beautiful of Lanakila’s statues. Suddenly he twisted about and his eyes met hers, and held.
He made no move to cover himself, merely stood there, the water lapping over his feet, gazing at her.
9
She was staring at him, staring intensely at his manhood, now swelling and jutting out beneath her gaze. Before he’d seen her, he had been thinking that Maui was indeed a Garden of Eden, so lush and warm and vibrantly beautiful. Jules fit into his image as naturally as the moonlit waves lapping over his feet.
Very slowly he walked toward her. Her bright hair was in wild disarray, flowing down her back and over her shoulders. She was wearing only a simple white cotton chemise that came to her knees.
He said nothing, merely stopped in front of her. She sat very straight on the edge of the rock, her hands folded primly in her lap, her emerald eyes wide upon his face. He dropped to his knees in the sand, feeling the coarse grains against his legs. He stretched out his hands and placed them on her thighs. Slowly he pulled her legs apart. He slid his hands upward beneath her chemise, his fingers wet and warm on her smooth thighs. He clutched her buttocks, lifting her, and brought her down against him.
She cried out softly, and Saint shook himself free.
He was reeling with the vividness of the fantasy that had held him for many moments. He knew that what he’d imagined could easily happen—right now. He felt his manhood swelling, responding to her yearning gaze.
He forced himself to stand rigidly, and called out, his voice cold and distant, “What are you doing here, Jules?”
“I didn’t know anyone else would be here,” she said, her voice high and breathless.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I . . . I had to get away from the house, from Sarah.”
Had priggish Sarah been tauting her? “I see” was all he said. He walked briskly up the beach, aware of her eyes following his progress. He found his clothes and quickly dressed himself. He managed to pull on his boots, then straightened. The bulge in his trousers had diminished, thank heaven.
When he turned, she was standing very quietly, watching him. Soft moonlight flowed over her face.
“I’m staying with the Baldwins,” he said. “I’m going back now. I will probably see you in the morning.”
God, he sounded like a cold, uncaring bastard. He stopped in his tracks. “Jules,” he said, his voice gentle now, “don’t let Sarah hurt you. She doesn’t understand.” No one does, least of all your damned father and your wilting mother.
“Sarah is Sarah,” Jules said. She raised her chin. “I shall be quite all right, thank you.” You want to go, so go!
It was as if she’d spoken aloud. He merely nodded, turned on his heel, and strode from the beach.
He felt a great shudder go through his body.
* * *
I should paint a picture, Jules thought, and call it Family at the Breakfast Table with Prodigal Daughter. She nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Koli bringing in a fatted calf so everyone could rejoice over a feast at her return. Her father was sitting stiff and unyielding in his high-backed chair. Her mother was pulling apart a soft piece of bread, her thin fingers nervous and anxious. Sarah said not a word, merely toyed with the fresh papaya. Thomas, sensing the tension, kept his head down and wolfed his breakfast, as was his wont.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.
“Today is Saturday,” Etienne DuPres announced. “Will you be going to the plantation, Thomas?”
“Yes, Father. John and I have some business to discuss.”
Jules saw Sarah’s head come up at Thomas’ words, saw the desperate yearning in her eyes as she asked, “Will John come back with you for lunch?”
Thomas flashed a quick glance toward Juliana. “I imagine nothing could keep him away.”
“John is going to marry our Sarah,” Aurelia DuPres said in her thin, high voice. “Of course he will come.”
Etienne gazed a moment at his younger daughter. She looks like a wanton, he thought, just like her damned grandmother, even with her hair plastered against her head and tied securely.
“Juliana,” he said abruptly, shoving his chair back and rising, “you will come with me to my study. I wish to speak to you.”
Juliana escaped the house long before noon. She didn’t want to see John Bleecher. She didn’t want to see anyone. She kept to the back streets, but she saw many people she knew. The missionary contingent merely nodded to her and kept going. The natives were open, friendly, and glad to see that she was still alive. She knew she should visit Kanola’s husband and children, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so yet. The pain was too fresh. She walked south along Waine’e Street today, past the Episcopal cemetery. She didn’t turn toward the ocean until she reached Shaw Street. It was narrow, and muddy after a brief morning rain. She lifted her skirts, kept her head down, and continued walking. Her mind kept returning to the conversation with her father that morning. Not really a conversation, she amended to herself silently. He had stood on high, like God, and made a pronouncement.
When she reached the beach, she pulled off her shoes and stockings without hesitation, set them on a rock, and walked toward the water. Men were out on their canoes fishing, and two young children were playing in the waves. Naked-masted whalers were farther out in deep water. She walked farther down the beach, pausing every once in a while to examine an interesting shell that had been washed up. She didn’t pay any attention today to the birds, nor did she even spare more than a passing thought to the fish.
The hem of her skirt was soon soaked, but for the first time in her life she simply didn’t care. What else could her father do in any case?
She turned away from the water and walked barefoot to Maluuluolele. She stared at the small island in the center of the pond. It was a tiny island, Mokuula. How many years had it been a home of Maui chiefs? She couldn’t remember. Even King Kamehameha III had received visitors here in the recent past, showing them the large burial chambers holding the ornate coffins of those long-dead chiefs.
“Juliana.”
She froze in her tracks at the sound of John Bleecher’s voice.
She turned slowly to face him. “Hello, John. I thought you would still be at my father’s house.”
“No, I left. I . . . I had to see you, talk to you.”
I will not hurt Sarah, nor will I hurt John, Jules swore to herself. “I will be leaving Maui soon, John.”
“I know,” he said. God, she was beautif
ul. His fingers itched to touch her, to feel her beautiful wild hair.
“I really want to be by myself, John, if you don’t mind.”
He said nothing, merely walked toward her, stopping but inches from her. She looked up at him and was taken aback at the unfamiliar look in his blue eyes. She cocked her head to one side, silent.
“We’re alone,” he said more to himself than to her.
“I suppose so,” Jules agreed.
Suddenly, without warning, he grabbed her, hauling her against him and pressing his mouth against hers. Jules was too startled for a moment to struggle. “John!” she cried out, and felt his tongue thrust into her open mouth.
She began hitting him then, twisting to free herself from his hold. She hadn’t realized before that he was so strong.
“Stop it, Juliana,” he snarled at her in a voice she’d never heard. “Damn you, you know I’ve always wanted you, not Sarah. And now I know the truth. You’ve given it to how many men now?”
“Given what, for God’s sake? Let me go, John! How dare you do this?”
But he didn’t let her go. He seemed wild. She felt pain in her ribs, but didn’t cry out. “Don’t act the innocent with me, Juliana! I know now, all of it! Sarah told me what you’ve done. It won’t make any difference to have one more man, will it? God knows, you’ve been flat on your back for Saint!”
For a moment Jules lost her burgeoning fright in sheer shock. What had Sarah told him? “You think I’m a whore?” she asked in bewildered surprise.
He answered her with a groan and buried his face against her throat. She felt his hands grab her breasts, and she cried out, seeing Jameson Wilkes over her, his fingers stroking her naked breasts, squeezing, hurting. She went crazy in that moment, clawing, kicking at him, her breath coming in loud, jerking gasps. John hurled her to the ground and slammed his body down on top of her.
He was hard and punishing against her belly—she could feel him through the layers of clothing. Dear God, he was going to hurt her, and she knew now that this was what rape was.