Wild Star (11 page)

They’d been in San Francisco for over two weeks now. Blessed cool weather was Byrony’s first thought. She loved the fog, the way it billowed like a fluffy cloud over the bay. Occasionally it blanketed the city, even coming over Rincon Hill. She shook away her thoughts. The weather was stark, cool and clear today, as stark as Irene’s vicious words. I’ve got to speak to Ira. He’s got to do something about Irene. And, God, I can no longer remain locked away.

Byrony waited patiently until she heard Ira moving about in his room. Patience. That was something she’d surely learned in the past months. Patience unto boredom. For the first time, she raised her hand to knock on the adjoining door, then lowered it. She’d never been invited into his room, just seen it briefly when he had shown her over his house. A stark, masculine room. She continued to wait until she heard him leave and walk downstairs. She straightened her hair, shook out her skirts, and made her way to his study. Firmly she tapped on the closed door.

“Byrony, my dear, come in.” Ira rose to greet her. “How was your day?” She felt his eyes searching her face. What was he thinking, she wondered, when he looked at her?

“I must speak with you, Ira,” she said.

“Certainly. Come and sit down.”

She did as she was bid, folding her hands in her lap.

“Now, what is the matter, my dear?”

How to begin? How to explain the problem? “Ira,” she said, “Irene doesn’t want me near the baby.”

He withdrew; she sensed it, even though he said kindly, “Surely you are exaggerating, my dear. I agree that Irene is a bit protective of the child, but that is understandable, is it not?”

“Ira,” she continued, forcing her voice to remain calm, “Michelle is supposed to be my child. If anyone sees Irene with the baby, with me trailing along like a half-wit nanny, they’ll guess that something is very wrong.”

He sighed, rubbing his thumb along his jaw in a wide circular motion. She recognized it as a habit he engaged in whenever he was deep in thought. “People aren’t stupid,” he said finally. “You are, of course, quite right.”

“I must at least know the child well enough so she won’t start crying when I pick her up. Irene must understand that—”

“Irene must understand what?”

Ira whirled about as if he’d been shot. “Irene. Come in.”

“I’m already in,” Irene said coldly. “What I would like to know is, what kind of tales is Byrony carrying to you behind my back?”

Byrony gasped. “I’m not carrying tales. For God’s sake, Irene, we must work something out.”

“Everything would be just fine if you wouldn’t meddle.”

“That’s enough,” Ira said. Byrony watched him take his sister in his arms. She knew he was talking to Irene but couldn’t make out his words. If only he’ll make her see what an idiot she’s being. No, not an idiot; a poor woman who’s suffered and who must have the child to make her complete again.

Irene’s breath caught, and she began to sob.

Oh, damn. Surely Ira didn’t have to be so unkind as to make her cry.

Irene seemed to get a hold on herself. Ira patted her back and led her to a chair. “Now,” he said, looking away from Irene to Byrony, “we must consider this situation rationally. After all, we want what is best for Michelle. Irene, my dear, you must realize that Byrony is right. You must allow her to become close to the child, else people will wonder. You mustn’t appear so possessive. Do you agree?”

Irene hesitated for but a brief moment. “Yes, Ira,” she said dully.

And that was that, Byrony thought.

“Good. Now, I’ve a surprise for both of you. We are going to have a dinner party next Friday night. It’s time that Byrony was introduced properly to our friends.”

Byrony felt a rush of excitement. “That’s wonderful, Ira. Have you made out the guest list yet? Oh dear, we will need additional help. But I’m a good cook and I can assist Eileen—”

“Slow down,” Ira laughed, holding up his hands. “One thing at a time. First of all, I have made up the guest list and will go over it with you, Byrony. I’ve seen to additional servants, and in fact, I’ve hired a cook. Her name is Naomi; she’s a Negro from Alabama. Irene, I want you to be well rested by Friday. Remember it is Byrony, not you, who gave birth. You must get the bloom back in your cheeks.”

And that was that, Byrony thought again. The master had spoken. Byrony guessed that Irene was not pleased with her, but what could she do?

Byrony didn’t eat much that evening, cutting the chicken breast into neat small pieces, listening with half her attention to Ira’s efforts at light conversation. He was a kind man, she thought, looking at him. He tried so hard to keep both the women in his house happy.
His
house. Odd, but she didn’t feel a part of this family. She wondered if she ever would.

The next morning, Ira knocked on her door early. Byrony was already up and dressed, and pacing. “Ira,” she said in surprise, for she’d expected Eileen.

“Come, my dear, I have a surprise for you.”

“What? Another one? I thought you’d already left for your office.”

“My business affairs won’t float away in the bay,” he said, offering her his arm. “Come now, and no, I’m not saying anything more.”

Byrony followed her husband outside. “I don’t understand—” she began, only to blink rapidly in rapturous surprise. “Thorny, my mare—Oh, Ira.” She hugged him tightly. She whirled away from him in but a moment, and began stroking Thorny’s nose. “However did you get Father to part with her?”

“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?”