In The Face Of Death (13 page)

“You mean you had not resolved to break off with me?” she asked.

He stared at her, a hint of defiance in his answer. “After what I have done, I am shocked that
you
are not angry with
me.
”
He reached up and pulled the long pins from the neat bun at the back of her neck. “That’s better,” he said, as he loosened her hair.

“I could not be angry with you, not when I have tasted your blood,” she said.

“That again,” he muttered; he became patiently courteous, all but bowing to her. “And why is that, Madame Vampire?”

“Because I know you, and I know what you are.” She looked up at him, and read vexation in his eyes. “I know that you despise weakness, especially in yourself, and you often regard your feeling for me as weakness.”

He looked at her in mild amazement. “How the devil—”

“It is your nature,” Madelaine said swiftly. “It is intrinsic to your soul. You have decided that if you love me, you are weakened. I don’t know how to make you see that loving is a strength, not a weakness, and that it takes courage to love because love’s risk is so great.”

Sherman shook his head, scowling down at her. “If I were not married, what you tell me might be true, for there truly are risks in loving. But as I have a wife, and you, my dear, are not she, I must look upon this as an indulgence.”

Madelaine used her one reserve piece of knowledge. “But you don’t,” she said softly. “Look upon this as an indulgence.”

The stern light in his eyes warmed and softened, and he drew her tightly against him. “No; I don’t.”

Their kiss was deep, passionate, and long; it was the strangest thing, Madelaine thought in a remote part of her mind, but it was as if Tecumseh wanted to absorb her into himself, to pull her into him with the intensity of his appetence. Then she let all thought go and gave herself over to the desire he had ignited in her.

When they broke apart, Sherman had to steady himself against the table, laughing a little with shy embarrassment. “Sorry. That was clumsy of me. I was
.
. . you made me dizzy.”

“You weren’t paying attention,” said Madelaine as she ran her hands under the lapels of his jacket and peeled it off him.

He did not protest this, but set to unfastening his waistcoat and the shirt beneath it, working so precipitously that he got the shirt tangled in his suspenders and had to let Madelaine disengage them for him, which she did laughingly. “It isn’t funny,” he grumbled.

“If you say not,” she told him, with a smile that pierced his heart.

He caressed her hair as she continued to unfasten his clothing, and said dreamily, “If I were truly a brave man, I would take you and my children, and we would sail away to the Sandwich Islands together, and live there, the world well-lost. But I’m not that brave.”

She interrupted her task and said very somberly. “And you would come to hate me within a year or two, for making you forsake your honor.”

“But you
don’t
ask that,” he said, holding her face in his hands and scrutinizing her features.

“In time you would persuade yourself I had,” she said with grim certainty. “And I am not brave enough to sustain your loathing.”

“How could I?” he asked her, marveling at the forthrightness she displayed in the face of his examination.

“You would,” she said, and stood back to let him step out of his trousers. “I will fill the tub for you; the water is nearly warm enough.” She could see the first wisps of steam rising from the large pots. “Then you will bathe and we will have time together.” She reached for the pot-holders and lifted the first of the pots from the stove. As she emptied it into the bathtub, a cloud of steam rose, made tangy by the bath-salts.

Sherman was down to his underwear and shoes; he started to protest her labors, but stopped and said, “Shall I help you out of your clothes, as well?”

Madelaine emptied the second pot. “No. I will do that once you are in the bath,” she assured him.

“Where I can watch,” he ventured.

“Of course.” By the time she had poured the contents of the third pot into the tub, Sherman was naked and shivering. “Hurry. Get in,” she said, gathering up his clothes and setting them out on the butcher’s block to dry.

“It feels so good it hurts,” Sherman sighed as he sank into the water, gathering up the sponge and soap from the stand beside the tub.

“Then enjoy it,” said Madelaine, reaching to release the fastenings of her bodice as she moved toward the bathtub.

San Francisco, 8 September, 1855

A second letter has come from Saint-Germain, who tells me he is moving once more, this time to his house in Antwerp. He writes he will put his business in order there and then go on to Switzerland. I cannot describe how the sight of his handwriting wrings my heart; he is like music heard from a long distance, tantalizing and unreachable, not quite definable and the more entrancing for that. My love for him is like a deep note on the organ, more felt than heard, but essential to all the melody above.

I am almost finished with my chapter on the Utes, which pleases me tremendously. I tell myself I have captured the spirit of their legends and other teachings clearly enough so that the most opinionated of university-bound scholars cannot misinterpret what I have said. But I know that is impossible, so I must be willing to accept my own satisfaction with my efforts as sufficient.

Two days ago there was a slight earthquake, which I am informed happens frequently on this coast. It was not so destructive as the one I experienced in Turkey, twenty years ago, but I found it disquieting nonetheless. Poor Olga was in hysterics for the greater part of an hour, and Christian claimed that he knew it was coming because the dogs of the neighborhood howled before it struck. I have heard there was some minor damage in one of the grand casinos; their imported crystal chandelier fell into the lobby, injuring half a dozen patrons. The Chinese have set off fire-crackers to keep the evil spirits of the earthquake away. . . .

Tecumseh has been with me five nights out of the last ten, and he alternates between anguish at his laxness and joy for our passion. When he is not berating himself he tells me that he has never been so moved before, that I have revealed pleasures and gratification he thought did not exist until now. But this is always accompanied by the warning that he will not shame his wife any more than he has already, and that he will never leave his family. He refuses to be convinced that I do not wish him to run off with me, and nothing I have said to the contrary has made any lasting impression on him.

Tomorrow I go to an afternoon party given by Mister Folsom to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the marriage of Captain and Missus Kent—or so reads the invitation that was delivered to me last week. Baron deStoeckl has offered to be my escort, and I suppose I will accept. . . .

“How is your book coming, Madame?” asked the Baron as he handed her up into his carriage.

It was sunny but windy, and the fur rug waiting for her was welcome. “Very well, thank you,” she answered, taking her seat with her back to the coachman. “I suppose that Sherman has told you what a bad idea he thinks it is.”

They moved off in the direction of California Street. “I know his opinion of Indians, and so put little credence in his objections,” deStoeckl said, his eyes glinting merrily. “I do find it amusing that he becomes so outraged at your interest, however.” As diplomatically as possible, he added, “He may not be alone in his notions.”

“He isn’t,” said Madelaine crisply.

Baron deStoeckl nodded wisely. “It is good you are aware of the reception your work is likely to receive.”

“You mean that it is more apt to be ignored than anything else,” she said, feeling world-weary. “Yes, I know.”

“Then you will not be disappointed,” the Baron said with a nod of approval.

“I can’t promise that,” she replied with candor. “It would please me more than I can say to have this work read for what I hope it is, and given a thoughtful acceptance. But there are fashions in the groves of academe as there are in all things, and the old ways of the Indians are not as fashionable as the wilds of Africa just now.” She was able to laugh, but there was sadness in her voice.

“Ah, Madame, I am sorry.” He noticed his coachman was slowing down, and called out, “Michael, what is the trouble?”

“There is a wagon overturned at the next corner,” said the coachman.

“Then take the next street.” The Baron snapped his fingers. “We are expected to arrive on time.”

“But if there are injuries—” protested Michael.

“We will only add to the confusion, which will not assist the injured,” said the Russian testily.

“But perhaps Madame—” the coachman suggested, turning on the box.

“God help us all!” burst out deStoeckl. “Will you drive on, or are you unhappy in my employ?”

“But Madame saved Missus Thomas’ life,” said Michael, pausing to job in his leader, who was pulling at the bit.

“Yes, she did,” agreed deStoeckl. “But that does not mean she must minister to all of San Francisco. Drive on.” He ended the matter.

Michael sat with a very stiff back all the rest of the way to the Folsom house just off California Street; he exchanged no more than five words with the Baron when he let him and Madelaine down, then drove off with a strong attitude of disapproval.

“It appears that stories of your heroism have spread,” said deStoeckl as he handed over his hat and cloak to the servant who opened the door for them.

“Servants talk,” said Madelaine with a philosophical gesture.

“Almost as much as their employers do,” deStoeckl agreed, and offered Madelaine his arm for their walk into the garden where a great buffet was laid.

Fanny Kent was radiant in a flounced gown of peach-colored tarlatan over petticoats
a la Duchesse;
her eardrops were baroque pearls surmounted by rubies, and she wore a necklace of diamonds and rubies, the gift her husband had given her for this occasion.

Beside her, Captain Kent was in a claw-tail coat of dark-blue superfine over a waistcoat of embroidered white satin. He was beaming with pride as he lifted his champagne glass to his wife and thanked her for “the ten happiest years of my life.” He was delighted by the applause that followed.

“I won’t bother to bring you wine,” the Baron whispered to Madelaine after they had greeted their host. “But excuse me if I get some for myself.”

“Please,” said Madelaine, returning the wave Fanny Kent gave her. “You do not have to wait upon me, Baron.”

“You are gracious as always,” said deStoeckl, and went off to have some of the champagne.

Madelaine had no desire to go sit with the widows and dowagers in the kiosk, nor did she want to join the younger wives, all of whom seemed to spend their time talking about the unreliability of their servants, the precocity of their children, and the ambitions they had for their husbands. She would have nothing to contribute to their conversation and her presence would not be wholly welcome because of this. Instead, she went to where a new bed of flowers had just been planted; she occupied her time identifying the leaves of the plants, her thoughts faintly distracted by the realization that she would have to make more of the compounds Saint-Germain had taught her to make nearly a century ago, which would mean she would have to gather plants, barks, berries, and roots and do so without attracting undue attention. She did not hear Fanny Kent’s light, tripping step behind her.

“Oh, Madame de Montalia,” she enthused, prettily half-turning so that the tiers of her skirt fluttered becomingly around her. “I was so happy to see you arrive with Baron deStoeckl.”

“Why, thank you so much for inviting me,” said Madelaine, adding, “My felicitations on your anniversary. And may all those to come be as happy.”

“Thank you,” said Fanny, a smug half-smile showing her delight in this occasion. “I am a fortunate woman; my husband is devoted to me.”

“Yes, you are fortunate,” said Madelaine. “The more so that you are fond of him.”

Fanny clasped her hand to her throat. “Dear me, yes. I have seen marriages—well, we all have—where the partners do not suit, and one is forever trapped in trying to win the other, with flattery and gifts and other signs of affection that gain nothing but the aggravation of the other, or make more pronounced the alienation between them. The greater the effort, the greater the failure in those sad cases. Luckily, I am not of their number.”

“Which must please all your friends,” said Madelaine, thinking that festive small-talk had not changed in the one-hundred-twenty-nine years she had been alive. She made up her mind not to be bored. “I see the Captain has given you a beautiful remembrance.”

“So he has,” she preened. “How good of you to notice.” She looked around, then moved a step nearer to Madelaine. “I mentioned Baron deStoeckl just now, in the hope that there might be some . . . interesting announcements from him.”

Madelaine realized at once what Fanny sought to know; she chuckled. “Do not let his affianced bride hear you say that, or he will never lend me his escort again.”

Fanny’s face wilted. “Oh. An affianced bride, you say?”

“So he has informed me,” said Madelaine, her good humor unaltered. “Dear Missus Kent, you must know that with your best efforts few of us can become as happy as you are with the Captain. Although I appreciate your wish to see me thus.” She regarded Fanny, trying not to lose patience with her.

“Yes,” said Fanny naively. “It is true that happiness like ours is rare. But I think it is necessary for a woman to have a husband in this world. Life is quite impossible without one.” Impulsively she put her hand on Madelaine’s arm. “And I
hate
to see you so alone.”

“I deal well enough with my single condition,” said Madelaine, knowing that Fanny intended the best for her, but offended by this intrusion in spite of it.

“But the
future;
think of the future, Madame.” Her pretty face was now puckered with distress. “What will become of you? I cannot bear to think of it, not when I know you to be a prize any man would be glad to win.”