Chapters
47-54
by
heartcat
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No copyright
infringement is intended by the author.
The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
This story includes adult situations and sensitive scenes that
might be too realistic for some readers.
Chapter 47
Cadence scrambled from one side of the railcar to the next,
pressing her palms and forehead to the windows, watching the world go by. She
found that when she looked further out where the trees were, the train went
slower, and whenever she'd look down at the foreground, the train would speed
up, the beige blur of the ground below making her dizzy. She would watch out
one side for a moment, sapphire eyes surveying the landscape, then suddenly
scoot across the aisle, to see what new and exciting things there were to view
from the other side of the car.
"She's loving this," Catherine remarked to Jarrod with a soft laugh,
from the seat next to him.
Jarrod beamed at the beautiful little girl, squeezing Catherine's hand. He
loved listening to Catherine's voice, so husky and sultry. Just being together
with she and her daughter made his world complete. Experiencing train travel
through their eyes, was like taking his own first journey all over again. He
had found that Catherine had a special way of helping him to see even old
familiar things, as though they were new and exciting again. She communicated
to him with carefully chosen words and subtle nuances, exactly how things made
her feel, always putting an unique and refreshing perspective on everything.
And Cadence, who exhibited such a zest for life, despite all of the horrors
that she had been through in her difficult young life thus far, filled his
world with carefree laughter and innocent optimism. Jarrod wondered about the
man who had sired this precious child. Wondered if he ever thought back to that
moment in time five years ago. Wondered if he ever considered what had become
of the Indian girl he had so cruelly abused and whose world he had torn apart.
It seemed as though those trail scums had left Catherine for dead, so the man
probably never even gave any thought to whether or not he might have made the
teenager pregnant. That hollow shell of a human being was living his life
without any clue that somewhere, a piece of him existed. Likely the only good
and decent part of him there had ever been.
This little child with her honey gold skin, long, dark, wavy hair, and luminous
blue eyes was such a treasure. Jarrod thought to himself with a pang of envy
and regret that she could almost be his...the child of his flesh...with her
big, blue eyes. He marvelled to know that Cadence was here with them now
because of hate and prejudice and ugliness. And yet out of such a terrible
thing had come beauty and sweetness and love. He couldn't help but wonder if
Catherine ever felt conflicting emotions towards the barbarian that had taken
her parents, and stolen her virginity, then unwittingly left her with this most
precious gift.
Catherine was glad that they were able to travel in the Barkley's private car.
Not because it was so lovely and so comfortable, which it was, but because they
had their privacy. She didn't have to worry about anyone making derrogatory,
hurtful comments towards Cady, spoiling the child's glee. Jarrod hadn't even
hired a manservant for the short trip, so that they could be totally alone.
Silas had packed a picnic for them in case they became hungry or thirsty on
their journey, though they had eaten a hearty lunch of beef stew and biscuits,
followed by thick slices of Halley McNeils sumptuous raisin cake.
Catherine had been touched when Jarrod had told her that Halley had not only
agreed to pass out the laundry to her customers when they came for it, but had
also taken it upon herself to clean the shack. And then had sent that wonderful
cake along. Though they had been neighbours for a few months now, it had only
been recently that Halley had seemed to accept Catherine, and had extended the
first tentative fingers of friendship. That the McNeils had also come to her
aid that night...that Halley, who had enough of her own work to do, had taken
it upon herself to clean up and then bake for her, had touched Catherine
deeply.
And the Barkleys had been wonderful to her, Jarrod's mother and siblings,
including Annabelle, welcoming she had Cadence into their home, and treating
them both with kindess and respect. What a warm and loving family they were,
caring for one another deeply. Their bond resurrected in Catherine hopes and
dreams that she had kept buried for so long. To be part of a family unit again.
To have that support system, to always have somewhere to turn and someone to
care. It brought back memories of carefree laughter, and wonderful cooking, and
the joyous songs and dances of her people. It made Catherine long to be back
home again, back among the Metis in the Red River Settlement. To be again in a
land where she was accepted and loved.
She looked at Jarrod now, who was watching Cadence with unveiled delight.
Jarrod accepted and cared for them, she knew. But Jarrod also had certain
dreams and ambitions that were not concurrent with having she and Cady in his
life. Not on any permanent basis, certainly. Not in any way that Catherine
could possibly imagine. She wondered just how important this quest for power
was to Jarrod.
It likely wasn't as important to him for reasons of egosim, as it was for the
fact that he desired to attain that power so that he could then use it to help
others. Jarrod, as Governor of California, could do so much good, for so many
people. People who needed a man like him to champion them, because no one else
would. 'For the cause that lacks assistance, for
the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, and the good
that I can do.' That was who Jarrod Barkley was.
He took his strength, his sense of self, Catherine knew, from being a rock and
foundation for others. He could not ever see a wrong and try not to address it.
He was the most deeply principled, selfless man she had ever met. What would
his altruism cost she and Cady? Catherine wondered.
Her thoughts were overridden by Jarrod's voice, explaining to them that San
Francisco was the northern end of the peninsula between San Francsico Bay and
the Pacific Ocean, surrounded on three sides by water. The land itself was
rocky with steep hills. Some thirty years earlier, the Gold Rush had
transformed the face of the town. Since then they city had grown and
transformed dramatically. It was now California's major seaport. Almost every
immigrant who arrived to America's west coast by sea, and almost all imported
goods from the Far East, passed through the port of San Francisco. It was known
as the 'Barbary Coast' for it's resemblance to that pirate plagued coast in Northern
Africa, he told them, and really did attract some rough people to the wharves.
"Fall is lovely in San Francisco," Jarrod assured Catherine.
"It's generally warmer and sunnier than what we'd experience in Stockton,
and there's virtually no rain. You can shop for just about anything you'd
please there. I can't wait to take you and Cadence on a cable car, and to show
you Chinatown."
His enthusiasm was infectious, and Catherine couldn't help but feel eager to
share all of these wonders with Jarrod. It would be very telling about their
future though, she knew, this journey they had embarked upon.
* * * * * * * *
Nick had dropped Jarrod, Catherine and Cadence off at the
train station. He didn't normally take time off of work this way, and Jarrod
could easily have someone else drive them into Stockton, but Nick had had a few
personal errands he had wanted to run. Afterwards, he had sauntered over to the
post office to pick up the mail. There was a letter there for Jarrod, from
Gene, and another from his youngest brother to their mother. There was another
letter for Jarrod, bearing no postage though, so it was obviously local. Nick
didn't recognize the messy scrawl.
In addition to the letters, there was a telegraph wire for Jarrod from Patrick
Vandermeer in Sacramento. It seemed terse, and Nick could sense the aggravation
behind the words. Basically, it implied that the sooner Jarrod got out there,
the better for all involved.
Nick had been surprised when Jarrod had announced that he was taking Catherine
and Cadence on this little trip. The whole family had been surprised actually,
though no one had said anything to Jarrod. Nick wasn't sure if he agreed with
his mother's way of handling this situation. He believed that Jarrod was always
the first to give him a verbal smack upside the head if his behaviour was
irrational and not in his best interests. He felt that he should be returning
the favour, and forcing his older brother to confront some realities. The
longer they allowed Jarrod to float around in the clouds, the harder it would
be when for him when the time came to settle back down to earth.
And Nick couldn't quite believe that Jarrod was wearing such an enormous set of
blinders. Jarrod was the cleverest man Nick knew, always seeing to the heart of
matters, and always able to view situations from all sides. He was a man of
logic and reason. Yet here he was, pursing the Governor's Mansion, while also
pursing Catherine Vaillancourt. It didn't make any sense to Nick. Surely Jarrod
must know how people would react to a politician carrying on with an Indian
woman. Or part-Indian woman. Okay...a Metis woman, from Canada...but people
wouldn't know or care to differentiate, Nick knew.
There was no way Jarrod could have both of his dreams, Nick was certain. Yet,
which one did Jarrod really want? It had been a life long ambition of Jarrod's
to enter politics one day. It was just something that all of them knew would be
a reality one day, and it was something that they knew Jarrod would not only be
successful at, but which he would use as a springboard to help the lives of
others. And helping others was a vital part of who Jarrod was.
Nick believed that his brother had strong feelings for this woman. Yet, Jarrod
wasn't doing anything to make the relationship permanent. Nick was fairly
certain that Jarrod was sleeping with Catherine. He'd gotten up to use the
bathroom in the darkest hours before dawn on Hallowe'en night, and had seen
Catherine creeping from Jarrod's bedroom and across to the room she was sharing
with her daughter.
Nick had been angry at that. Not that he cared what his older brother did, or
who he did it with. It was the where that concerned him. Nick was very
considerate of his mother and sister, and very protective of Audra especially.
She was a young, unmarried woman, and it just wasn't right for Jarrod and
Catherine to be carrying on where Audra could be confronted with such evidence.
And Nick knew that his mother would not approve of such behaviour either. Not
that either of them would imagine Jarrod to be an innocent, but there were just
some things that demanded propriety and this was one of them. Nick had wanted
to say something to Jarrod in private, but in the end, he had let well enough
alone. Jarrod's lack of consideration for Mother and Audra, so out of
character, led Nick to believe that bringing up the matter would not be met
with chagrined remorse and vows to cease such actions, but would probably be
met with anger and resentment and would drive a wedge between them when Jarrod
would need his support the most.
Nick did wonder though what Jarrod's intentions were towards the young woman.
He couldn't keep Catherine and Cadence living under their roof indefinitely,
under such ambiguous circumstances and with such an indecisive standing. Was
Jarrod serious about this woman? Nick had to wonder. Jarrod had never once
mentioned anything permanent. Surely his brother would know there was no way
there could ever be anything lasting between he and Catherine.
Nick thought it would be better if Jarrod just stopped playing around, before
the young woman really got hurt. Nick liked Catherine well enough, and he
thought her little girl Cadence was the most enchanting child. But there could
not ever be a place for them in his brother's life. Nick hoped that Jarrod
would wake up and smell the coffee before he not only ruined his career, but
Catherine's life as well. Nick couldn't help but think of Leah Thomson and his
late father, and the little boy, Heath, who grew up without a father. Nick
hoped that Jarrod was being careful. It just wasn't like his big brother to be
so seemingly scatter-brained and oblivious.
Sighing, Nick decided that he would have a quick drink at the Golden Eagle
before heading back to the ranch. He pushed through the swinging doors and
sidled up the bar, grinning at Harry. "Beer, please," he requested,
flipping a coin onto the scarred wooden surface of the bar.
Harry filled a mug and slid it over to Nick. Nick turned to the room, leaning
as elbow on the bar, as he sipped the brew and surveyed the other patrons. It
was still early, so the saloon was mostly empty, save a handful of cowboys. He
spied Starr, sitting alone at a corner table, eating a late lunch, while she
waited for the bar to fill and her work to begin. Nick headed towards her, his
spurs clinking as he crossed the room.
He couldn't help the look of astonishment that pulled at his rugged features as
he gazed down at the woman. There was an unsightly bruise on her cheek, and her
bottom lip was swollen and cracked. She had tried to cover the bruise with
thick powder and rouge, and had attempted to camouflage her damaged smile with
bright red lipstick. Someone, some animal, had hurt her. Nick felt his anger
rise. He didn't understand the kind of man who would hurt a woman.
Starr saw the way Nick Barkley regarded her, and she shrugged her shoulders,
and tried to smile. "I guess I still look a fright then," she said
regretfully. "Well, maybe Harry was right and I'd do better to hide myself
away til it gets darker and the men get drunker." She laughed hollowly.
Nick pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. "Starr, what on earth
happened to you?" he demanded. "Who did this? I'll see that he pays
for it." Nick's dark eyes narrowed.
Starr reached over and patted his arm. "It's okay Nick. He was just
drifting through Stockton. He's long gone. But I appreciate your caring."
They were such wonderful men, these Barkleys, she thought. She didn't feel for
Nick the way she did for his brother Jarrod, but Nick too had always treated
her with kindness and respect. As had the other Barkley sons, Heath and Eugene.
It was touching to know that Nick would be her defender this way.
"Well, if he ever drifts back into town," the disgruntled,
dark-haired cowboy growled, "you be sure to let me know! I'll give him a
lesson or two about the way we treat our women in Stockton!" His eyes
flashed.
Starr hesitated. She was still ashamed of what she had done, both agreeing to
be with that horrible man Clay, and for knowing that she had betrayed Jarrod
Barkley. She had wondered if she should approach Jarrod, and confess what she
had done. To let him know to be on his guard against this man 'Clay' who meant
him no good. But Jarrod hadn't been in town recently, and his office had remained
closed for a few days. She had no idea when she might see Jarrod again, and
perhaps by then it would be too late. Perhaps, she thought, she should confide
in Nick Barkley.
"Actually," Starr began, unable to meet Nick's eyes. "I think
the man who I was...entertaining...knew your brother. Though I don't think
they're friends."
Nick raised a dark, furry brow. "Heath? Jarrod?" He didn't think it
would be Gene.
Starr bit her bottom lip, then winced at the pain. "Jarrod." She felt
herself flush. "He was asking a lot of questions about Jarrod."
Nick frowned. "What sorts of questions?" he asked, feeling suddenly
protective of his oldest brother.
Starr looked down and twirled her fingers through the lace that trimmed her
purple dress. She'd had to get another dress, after the stranger had ruined her
red one. She hadn't taken any pleasure in the shopping, even though the man had
left enough money to cover the cost of the replacement garment. "He...he
was asking about Jarrod and...a woman." She blinked nervously several
times. "He was very intent on learning whatever he could about your
brother and...any woman he was spending time with."
Nick considered this. Suddenly, he thought he understood where Starr's bruises
had come from, and how they had come about. Nick knew that Starr had a crush on
Jarrod, though Jarrod seemed blissfully unaware of her attachment to him. He
could envision the scene as it must have played out. This man, probably some
investigator hired by Jarrod's political opponents to dig up whatever dirt they
could on him, had tried to get information out of Starr. And, feeling about
Jarrod as she did, she had been hesitant to give him any, out of loyalty to his
brother.
"I'm sorry he did this to you," Nick told her gently. "And
Jarrod will be furious! He'll find out who it was and make him pay."
"No!" Starr interjected. "Nick, please," she implored,
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't let Jarrod know about this. I feel just
awful," she hovered on the verge of tears.
"It's okay, Starr," Nick said gently. "You had no choice. What
did you tell him?" Nick asked curiously.
"I...I told him that Jarrod was rumoured to be seeing that...that
washerwoman." Starr swallowed nervously. "He...he knows where she
lives." She felt horrible. "He didn't know though...not when he left
me...that she's...well..." Starr left the thought unspoken, but Nick knew
what she was trying to say.
Nick knew he shouldn't have been surprised that people knew of Jarrod's
involvement with Catherine Vaillancourt, or that it was being discussed by the
townspeople, but he still was taken aback. He thought then, of the weird
feeling he had been getting lately, the couple of occasions when he had been in
town. That people were talking behind his back. It was beginning to make sense
now.
Starr continued. "Please, Nick, don't tell Jarrod it was me that
told," she begged. "I just thought maybe you could warn him, that
someone had been around asking, without letting him know it was me." Her
dark eyes shimmered with tears.
"I won't, Starr," Nick promised. "I'll just let him know that
someone's been around asking. Jarrod can take it from there." He rubbed
his chin thoughtfully. "Guess this guy didn't give his name or anything,
or let drop who he was working for?" he asked hopefully.
Starr tilted her head to one side. "He said his name was Clay."
Nick thought for a moment, but the name didn't mean anything to him. Not that
it should, the guy was probably just some scumbag, seedy investigator. It would
do well for Jarrod to be aware though, that people were delving into his
private life. "Thanks, Starr," Nick told her, as he drained the beer
from his glass. "You're a good friend to Jarrod to tell me. And I'll keep
your secret safe," he gave his word.
Starr looked at him gratefully. "I don't know how good of a friend I
am," she said sadly. "But I figured Jarrod should know what's
up."
Nick thanked the woman, then rose to leave the saloon. He was almost to the
doors, when he heard low, mocking laughter from the table nearest the exit.
"Well, if it ain't the injun lover," a voice mocked.
"He ain't the injun lover," another voice reproved with a chuckle.
"It's the lawyer brother."
"Ain't you heard?" the first man continued. "The Barkleys have
the lawyer's dirty, half-breed whore out livin' at the ranch house now, jes
like she was some fine society gal. They's all injun lovers! Maybe in more ways
'n one, huh Joe?"
Nick swivelled to face the pair at the table, his jaw clenched. Matt Carson and
Joe Wilson looked back at him. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table between
them, though only about a third of it had been consumed so far. The men weren't
drunk yet, Nick realized. They weren't being mean-drunk, they were just plain
being mean. Carson, a short, burly man in his late thirties with balding salt
and pepper hair, was a ranch hand for the Wallaces. Wilson, tall, thin and
red-headed, and known to be fond of liquor, worked odd jobs as a handyman about
town.
Nick stood with his feet apart, hands on his slim hips. He looked from one man
to the other, sizing them up. Both were armed, their hands resting loosely by
their holsters. "You boys have something you need to say to me?" Nick
asked, his gravelly voice low and hard. "Cause you're either gonna
apologize for what you just said, or you're gonna back it up with your
fists." His eyes glittered. "No one talks about my family that way,
or anyone who's a guest under our roof. Do I make myself clear?"
Carson pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "You gonna call
me out fer tellin' the truth, Barkley?" he demanded, his cheeks reddening.
"Ain't it true, you got that stinkin' savage livin' at yer ranch? Ain't it
true your brother Jarrod's been makin' no bones that she's his gal? Takin' her
out to supper, and buyin' her stuff? Now he's got her there under his roof, so
he can do his whorin' right there in the comfort of his own home!"
The room was silent. There were only a few other patrons there, but they all
turned with interest to the scene that was playing out at the front of the
room.
Nick's hand itched to draw his gun, but he saw that Carson had moved his own
hand away from his gunbelt and now crossed his arms over his chest. Part of
Nick knew that in essence, what Carson was saying was true. He couldn't gun
down a man for stating the truth. But he could let him know that he didn't much
care for the way he was saying it, or the derrogatory way he was speaking about
Catherine. "I don't much appreciate your language, Matt," Nick said
finally. "I don't know, but it just sounds down right rude. Disrespectful.
I can't have you disrespecting my family or friends. And I don't see that our
private affairs are any concern of yours anyhow."
Wilson pushed back his chair too, and stood up to lend support to his buddy.
"You gettin' a little squaw action too, Barkley?" Wilson laughed
contemptuously. "Tell us, what's it like?"
Nick strode over to Joe Wilson. He put his face right up to the other man's and
whispered, "Your gonna wish you hadn't said that, Joe." Then Nick
drew back his fist and punched Wilson hard in the gut, watching in satisfaction
as the other man gave a gasp, and paled before falling to the floor. Nick spun
agilely, drawing his gun and levelling it at Carson, whose hand was on the butt
of the pistol that had not cleared it's holster yet. "I don't advise you
to do that, Matt," Nick cautioned, his voice like ice. "You've got
two seconds to apologize for your mouth. One...two..." Nick upended the
table with a fluid motion, sending the glasses and the bottle of whiskey
crashing to the floor, as the table itself bumped Carson, causing him to
stagger and lose his footing, and go down.
Nick slipped his gun back in his belt, then was on top of Carson in an instant,
giving vent to his anger and frustration. Blow after blow from gloved fist
landed on Carson's middle section. Carson was only able to get in one or two
glancing jabs at Nick's chin, before a final right from Nick to Carson's jaw
knocked the other man out. Nick heard Starr shout his name in warning, and he
tucked his head and shoulders in instinctively, and rolled to his right. The
chair that Joe Wilson had intended to bludgeon him with only glanced off of his
shoulder before smashing to pieces on the floor. Nick got up on one knee and
extended both arms straight, clasping his hands together, and using them as a
club, sweeping Wilson's feet out from beneath him.
Jow Wilson gave a cry of rage, going down as Nick scrambled to his feet. Wilson
reached for his gun, and Nick kicked the hand at the man's hip, his heavy boots
crunching the bones against the unyielding metal of the pistol. Wilson
hollowed, rolling around the ground in agony. Nick leaned towards him, caught
off guard when Wilson suddenly kicked out viciously, connecting with Nick's
upper left shoulder. Nick grunted in pain, then the tip of Wilson's other boot
caught his right cheek, the metal tip grazing his skin, leaving a line of
blood.
Nick bellowed angrily, curling his right arm, and delivering a solid blow to
Wilson's jaw. The other's man's blue eyes rolled back in his head then he too
passed out. Nick got to his feet, rubbing his shoulder, and headed back to the
bar, leaving the two unconscious men prone on the floor.
"Whiskey," he spoke tersely to Harry, who filled a glass. No one
spoke to Nick, and the saloon was unnaturally quiet, as he downed the amber
liquid, before reaching for the bottle himself and refilling it immediately. He
stared reflectively into his glass, then brought it to his lips, tilting back
his dark head and tossing the liquor down. Nick felt very alone as he stood there
in the preternatural silence.
He reached for his wallet, taking out a couple of bills and set them onto the
counter. "That's for the drinks, and the chair," Nick mumbled. He
touched his cheek, and withdrew his hand, looking at the red smear on his black
glove. He wiped it against his pants, then turned and left the bar.
Before he even took Catherine and Cadence to his house on
Russian Hill, Jarrod ushered them off of the train and commandeered a cab and
gave directions to a street in Chinatown. He winked at Catherine, though he
refused to tell her where they were going. "You'll see soon enough,"
had been his grinning reply.
Catherine had loved the rail route into San Francisco, along the Pacific Ocean
side where they gazed out onto the open water dotted with sailboats. Jarrod
informed them that during the summer, it seemed that you couldn't even the see
the blue of the water, for the white of sails, especially over on the Bay side,
so close packed were the leisure craft. He mentioned that perhaps they could
rent a boat and take a tour of the city from the coastline, where they could
get a different persepctive on the hills and rocky inclines that jutted up from
the sea to form this Californian gem.
The streets were so sharply inclined, Catherine felt sorry for the pair of
horses that pulled their carriage, straining against the gravity that must make
the cab incredibly heavy. She listened to their hooves scrabble on the
cobblestone hills, as they fought for their footing. There was a clanging of
bells, and a rumbling sound, and Catherine glanced out the window to see the cable
car moving alongside them, and up the steep hill. Cadence, on her lap,
exclaimed over the wonder of the horseless carriage.
Jarrod lowered his voice as he explained to Catherine about that day in 1869
when transplanted Englishman Andrew Halladie witnessed the event that would be
the catalyst to the development of the cable car system. It had been a wet
summer's day, the slippery cobblestones treacherous to traverse. A horse drawn
streetcar has slid back under it's heavy load, dragging five screaming, terrified
horses to their deaths. It had planted the seed of an idea in Halladie.
Halladie's father had held the first patent in Great Britain for wire rope.
Halladie had already put the technology of wire rope to use in California, in
the design and building of the suspension bridge over Sacramento's American
River. Wire rope was also utilized in the mines to pull the heavy ore cars out
of the bowels of the earth on a system of tracks. The technology was already in
place for the cable car systems, it had just taken an event such as this
tragedy to get the right people thinking in that direction.
In August of 1873, the first cable car system was tested near the top of Nob
Hill at Clay and Jones Streets. By September of that year, they began public
service. Four years later, the Sutter Street Railroad converted from animal
power to cable with no break in service, and as recently as 1878 the Cal Cable
Street Railroad Company, took affect.
Catherine was impressed at how knowledgable Jarrod was, and what an excellent
tour guide he made. Just as he finished his story, the driver halted the team.
Jarrod helped Catherine and Cadence out of the carriage, thanked the driver who
lifted down their bags, then paid him handsomely. The man tipped his tophat to
the trio, clucked to the horses, and moved away.
Catherine stood on the noisy street, looking up and down in wonder. Cadence
stared agog at the throngs of Chinese people who moved past them quickly on the
sidewalks. She had seen Chinese people before, but not so many, and not
concentrated in one locale. Catherine sniffed the air, delighting in the the
mingling of strange and exotic scents. She saw one shop with freshly killed
ducks hanging upside down in the window. There was another that was a laundry,
a sign outside advertising $4 per dozen to wash muslin gowns and wrappers.
Catherine blinked. So much money! Jarrod had warned her that the city was
expensive, but that was ridiculous!
Jarrod allowed them a moment to adjust to the newness and bustle of their
surroundings, before picking up the luggage, and with one hand at the small of
Catherine's back, guiding them through a door that bore Chinese characters.
Bells jingled as they stepped into the building, which was dimly lit, and
fragrant with incense. A lovely young Chinese woman sat behind a black laquer
desk, dipping her pen into ink, and with amazing swiftness, writing on a page
of thin, translucent paper. Catherine was enthralled to see the woman writing
backwards in the graceful script.
"Good day," Jarrod said to her with a gracious smile. The young woman
nodded and smiled in return. "Is Lo Chiu Yi in today?" he inquired.
"It's Jarrod Barkley to see her." The young woman rose, gave a slight
bow and disappeared through a curtain of beads. "Chui Yi is a dressmaker,"
Jarrod told Catherine, his blue eyes dancing. "She's extremely skilled.
Mother often comes to her to have items specially made."
Catherine looked at him and nodded. Perhaps they were here to pick up a custom
order for Mrs. Barkley. The young woman came back moments later, and indicated
with a waving motion of her delicate hand, that they should follow her into the
back. They filed down a narrow hallway then turned to the right. It was
brightly lit in this back work area, and very busy. More than half a dozen
Chinese woman sat at sewing machines, their feet working the treadles, their
backs hunched, their faces inspecting the seams as they fed fabric through.
An elfin Chinese woman waved to Jarrod over the heads of the workers, from the
far corner where she was pinning folds of silk around a mannequin. Other women
worked at other mannequins, and still a couple more stood at an enormous
tables, laying out pieces of cloth and cutting patterns. The back wall
contained bolt after bolt of the most gorgeous fabrics...silk, cashmere, satin,
velvet, and brocade, in every colour of the rainbow. Kitty corner was another
wall with silk threads in all colours imagineable, glass fronted drawers with
buttons and beads, skeins of delicate laces and trims, and all of the
accessories and acoutrements necessary to create the latest fashions.
The young woman bowed to them and disappeared back down the hallway. They
waited near the front of the room for the other woman, clearly the one in
charge of everything, who called instructions to the others in a singsong
voice. Cadence gaped at all the women, watching as their feet and fingers flew.
Shortly, the tiny woman made her way to the front, reaching both hands towards
Jarrod. "Mr. Barkley," she said in near perfect English, bowing, her
smile proclaiming that she was genuinely happy to see him. She had an ageless
quality, her face unlined, the dark hair that was pinned in a bun showing some
strands of grey. Catherine thought that she might be anywhere from thirty to
sixty.
"Lo Chiu Yi," Jarrod said smoothly, bowing in return, "may I
introduce Miss Catherine Vaillancourt, and her daughter Cadence. Catherine,
this is Lo Chiu Yi, dressmaker extraordinaire," Jarrod complimented. He
used the Chinese tradition of placing the surname first.
The women exchanged greetings. "How may I assist you?" Chiu Yi asked
pleasantly.
"Well," Jarrod said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together,
"these young ladies need to be measured and fitted for some special
items."
Catherine's eyes darted to Jarrod's face. He had brought she and Cadence here
to buy them clothes? Her first instinct was to reject his offer. Then she
thought of what he had said previously, about wanting to buy her things from
time to time, and her agreeing to be more gracious of his kindnesses. She
waited curiously, wondering what he had in mind. The truth was that though
Cadence had the pretty yellow dress that she was wearing now, she herself had
only this lilac gown to her name. And it wasn't really the sort of thing that a
young lady who was accompanying a man like Jarrod Barkley about town should be
wearing. If he wanted to buy her a dress, she would allow it, and be grateful
for his thoughtfulness.
Chiu Yi spoke in Chinese...a Cantonese dialect, Jarrod would later tell Catherine...and
called to one of the women who ceased draping fabric around a mannequin. She
came forward and beckoned for Catherine and Cadence to follow her to a
curtained dressing room, where she could measure them. Shyly, the young woman
and the girl went with her, while Jarrod stayed to speak with Chiu Yi.
"I know this is incredibly short notice, Ma'am," he began, "but
I really need something extra special for this evening. The prettiest, most
fashionable gown you can create. I know that only gives you a few hours, but
I've seen the magic you can make." He looked at her hopefully. "I
leave it to your discretion for the choice of style, fabric and colour that you
think would be most becoming on this special young woman."
She considered this for a moment. "We are ahead with our Thanksgiving
orders. I can get several of the women to each work on a piece, and create
something for you for tonight," she agreed. "If it were any other
customer, I would say it was impossible," she went on, dimples appearing
on her smooth cheeks, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling, "but for the
Barkleys, I will do it!"
Not only was Mrs. Victoria Barkley one of her oldest and best customers, but
Chiu Yi, as well as many other people of Chinatown, had not forgotten about the
incident where the Masters had almost cornered the rice market, but for the
Barkleys. That would have been disasterous for her people. And Jarrod had also
done much pro bono work in the last several years helping to set aside
discriminatory San Francisco bylaws designed to hurt the Chinese.
Jarrod grinned. "I can't tell you how indebted I am," he thanked her.
Then her reached into his pocket and handed her a list. "These are some
other items I will need, but they are to be a secret. If you could arrange for
them somehow, and have them all sent to my brownstone, I would be most
appreciative." Jarrod peeled off several large bills and extended them
towards the woman while her eyes scanned the list.
She nodded. "Some of this we have here, others I can send a girl for to
purchase ready made elsewhere."
Jarrod looked relieved. "Thank you. Just the one gown needs to be ready
for tonight, and the accessories, but the other things, and the items for the
child, can wait for the next day or two, as soon as you can have them
done." Catherine and Cadence were coming back towards them then.
"This means a great deal to me. You have my gratitude," Jarrod said
sincerely.
He hailed another cab, and took Catherine and Cadence then to his house. He had
wired the Fongs, the couple who carried for the place, to let them know that he
would be arriving today and that he would need two of the guest rooms readied
as well. Also the Fongs would arrange for a nanny to be at the residence, to
care for Cadence when Jarrod and Catherine desired to be alone. The carriage
stopped infront of the row of brownstones, and they alighted again. "Home
sweet home," Jarrod announced jovially.
Catherine gazed up at the brownstone. It was not overly large or imposing,
compared to some of the enormous homes they had passed on route, but it was
stylish. So, this was where Jarrod stayed when he spent time in the city,
Catherine mused. The Fongs, an older Chinese couple, greeted them at the door.
If they were surprised at Catherine's ethnicity, they hid it well, she saw. She
sensed in them only a deep, genuine affection for Jarrod, and a polite and
normal curiosity about his guests. Mr. Fong took their bags and they followed
him upstairs.
Jarrod indicated a smaller room at the end of the hallway for Cady. She ran in
and jumped on the single bed, rolling around and declaring that it was just as
nice as their bed at the Barkley mansion. It was decorated in yellow and blue,
with ornate French furniture. Catherine's room at the other end of the hallway
held a big, brass, double bed. Oak and wicker furniture were complimented by
the peach and green tones of the room. Both rooms boasted walk-in closets and
small fireplaces.
Across from Catherine's room was Jarrod's quarters. A small sitting room led
into a larger sleeping area graced by a four-poster mahogany bed, with
intricately carved posts and a burgundy velvet canopy and curtains. The
wardrobe and dresser here were more masculine with clean lines and simple brass
hardware. A family portrait, of a younger Jarrod, with his parents, Nick,
Audra, and a young boy who must be his brother Eugene, hung over the marble
mantle of the fireplace. For a moment, Catherine was surprised not to see Heath
in the painting, until she remembered that he had not joined the Barkley family
until recent years, after Thomas Barkley's death.
Jarrod left Catherine and Cadence's bag in Catherine's room, then took his to
own room. He hadn't needed to bring much, keeping a full wardrobe at the San
Francisco house. And Catherine and Cadence hadn't had much to bring, just
personal items and one other dress for Cadence. Unpacking didn't take long.
Jarrod showed them the watercloset on this upper floor, where he suggested they
both freshen up with a warm bath while he waited for them in the drawing room
downstairs.
Later they rejoined him, feeling refreshed. The drawing room was a darkly
panelled room, with substantial, leather furniture, including a big brown chair
next to the hearth. Jarrod was sitting there now, and Catherine could imagine
him spending evenings there, pouring over legal documents. He smiled and rose
when they entered, then quickly went to bathe and change. He rejoined them
shortly afterward, pleased to find Catherine and Cadence making themselves at
home, sipping lemonade and playing checkers.
"The Fongs have quarters at the back of the main floor," Jarrod
commented, pouring himself a glass of bourbon, and Catherine a glass of sherry.
"The nanny will stay in an extra room back there, as well. She should be
here shortly."
Indeed, Miss Elizabeth Price, an English spinster, arrived not fifteen minutes
later. Jarrod introduced her to Catherine and Cadence and explained that while
Cady would spend a great deal of time with he and Catherine, there would be
occasions when they would need Miss Price to take Cady out for part of the day
to the park while they went elsewhere. Most evenings they would need her to
stay with the child while they went out. Jarrod declared that they would
probably be in San Francisco for three or four nights.
Catherine noted that Miss Elizabeth Price, small and plump with lovely violet
eyes and auburn hair shot through with silver, seemed perturbed upon first
seeing Catherine and Cadence's skin colour. Cady seemed to take to Miss Price
immediately though, and Catherine was relieved to see the older woman quickly
warm to her daughter, eventually joining the child in a lively game of
checkers.
"I have dinner planned for this evening," Jarrod told Catherine,
sitting next to her on the big, dark leather chesterfield. "Just you and
I. I hope you're not too tired from travelling."
Catherine was touched by the earnest, hopeful look on his face. She thought
that Jarrod looked younger than when she had first met him. The dark circles
were gone from beneath his blue eyes, and the lines that had perpetually
creased his brow had smoothed. He looked truly happy. "I'm not too tired
at all," she assured him, a soft smile on her burgundy lips. How nice it
felt to be here with him, she thought.
* * * * * * * *
"What the devil do you mean, they quit?" Nick
roared, standing outside the stable. He'd just got back from Stockton, his
shoulder hurt, he was in a miserable mood after the confrontation in the
saloon, and he just wanted to soak in the tub before dinner.
Duke McCall, the Barkley's long-time foreman winced as the words reverberated
in his ear drums. He had known this wasn't going to be pleasant, and Nick
Barkley's dark scowl evidenced just how right he had been. "I mean they
quit, Nick. Picked up their pay, packed up their horses, and rode out of
here."
"Just like that?" Nick demanded incredulously. "With no warning?
Without any notice? Just left? Both the kid, Millar, and Gus Forbes too?"
Duke nodded. "Millar I could see, he wasn't much cut out for ranching
anyhow, but Forbes has been here nigh on two years!" Nick slammed a fist
against his lean thigh. "We're heading into the winter season, and we've
already let the extra summer hands go. This is gonna leave us short,
Duke!"
Duke McCall took off his hat, and ran his hand through close-cropped greying
hair. "I've already sent Kendall into town, to see if he can scare up some
help for the next few days til we can get word out that we're hiring," he
said placatingly.
Nick paced before the older man, rubbing his hand over his face. He'd forgotten
about the cut on his cheek and swore under his breath when his leather glove
abraded the scabs and reopened the shallow wound.
"What happened to ya, by the way?" Duke asked, raising an eyebrow.
"A little trouble in town," Nick mumbled dismissively. He sighed
heavily. "Do you have any idea why they lit out like that?" he asked
the foreman. The Barkley ranch was known for having clean, comfortable beds and
good food and decent working conditions, as well as fair wages.
Duke's eyes shifted then came back, his pale blue gaze meeting the younger
man's dark one. "Yeah, I do." He seemed embarassed, running the brim
of his hat through his fingers.
"Well?" Nick pressed. "I'm in no mood for games, Duke!"
Duke coughed to clear his throat. "Well Nick...seems like...they had a
little problem with...with Jarrod's houseguest..."
Nick's jaw dropped. "What the heck does that have to do with them?"
he asked, stunned. "Was there some incident between them and
Catherine?"
Duke shook his head. "Naw. Just that...well...you know how some folks is,
Nick."
"And how exactly are some folks, Duke?" Nick asked quietly, his eyes
glittering, though he could guess the answer.
"Well...you know. They just don't like...people who ain't the same as
them."
"You mean, they quit because Catherine is Indian?" Nick queried in
disbelief. The older man nodded. "And what the heck does that have to do
with them anyways?" he demanded.
"Well...Forbes started goin' on about it first, you know. Tryin' to get
the other guys riled up. Seems he lost some folk to the Tachi-Yokuts. And he
kept goin' on about how it weren't right for an Indian to be up there at the
main house, living all special like, while the men was kept in the
bunkhouses." Duke felt really uncomfortable repeating all of this, as
though he were somehow being disloyal to Jarrod. But Nick was his direct boss,
and the Barkley he was closest too and who he worked with on a daily basis. And
he figured that Nick had a right to know what had gone on. This might be
something that Duke couldn't deal with on his own, if Forbes had managed to
plant any seeds in the other hands' heads that might germinate later on.
"Oh he did, did he?" Nick said icily. "Well then, I guess he's
mighty lucky he's miles from here by now. I don't think much of hired hands
flapping their gums about what my family does in their private business. I'd
have fired him anyway if I heard garbage like that. After I taught him what
happens when you run your mouth about anything that goes on in my house!"
"I know, Nick, I know," Duke McCall tried to soothe him.
"So, what was the general reaction to that stupidity?" Nick demanded.
Duke shrugged his shoulders tiredly. "The young kid, Millar, he got all
worked up about. Some folks is real impressionable that way, you know how it
is. So he decided he wasn't workin' for no..." Duke stopped, aghast at
what he'd been about to say.
"Working for no...what?" Nick probed, his scowl deepening, a shock of
unruly dark hair flopping across his brow. The muscles in his jaw clenched and
unclenched.
"Aw, Nick, it wasn't my words," Duke protested, holding out his hands
in supplication.
"Just tell me what Millar's words were, Duke. Spit it out and let's get
this over with!"
"He said he wasn't workin' for no 'injun lovers'," Duke repeated
quietly.
Nick was silent for several seconds, digesting this. At length, he sighed.
"You say they were mouthing off to the other hands. And what were their
reactions?" Nick wanted to know.
"Well, Nick, most of 'em wasn't payin' Forbes or Millar no mind,"
Duke reassured him. Then he felt guilty. Was that really the way it had been,
or just the way Duke had hoped it had been? He wasn't too sure anymore.
"Most of 'em?"
"Well, yeah, most of 'em. One or two others was encouraging the talk, but
when it came right down to it...to takin' a stand...they balked like a couple
of skittish colts. They was just talkin' to hear themselves. They didn't really
mean nothin' by it." Duke saw the way Nick was staring at him, and didn't
wait for the next question. "Rayburn and Ortez, they was talkin' it up,
but they didn't mean it. Not really."
Nick closed his eyes. Rayburn he could take or leave, but Ortez was a good
hand. Great at roping and cutting. He'd always gotten along well with Ortez,
and had thought him a decent person. Knowing now what had been said, Nick felt
pressured. If he let Rayburn and Ortez stay, they might start to think that
whatever happened among the family, or at the house, was their concern. If he
fired them, he'd be short four hands, and hard-pressed to replace them at this
time of year. At least, with decent cowboys.
"Don't do it, Nick," the foreman cautioned quietly. He knew his boss
well enough to know what Nick Barkley was thinking. "Don't fire Rayburn
and Ortez. Not just for talk. It was among the men. In the bunk. It's not like
they said it right to you. They'll know it was me, and I'll lose face. I'll
lose their respect and their trust. I'll never be able to give another order
around here again. And then you'll be down five men."
Nick knew that what Duke McCall said was true. "Is that the last of it
then, do you think?" Nick asked wearily, opening his eyes again. Eyes that
were now clouded with doubt.
"Yeah, Nick, that's the last of it. I'm sure," Duke replied hastily.
Wondering just how sure he really was.
* * * * * * * *
While Miss Price was giving Cady dinner in the kitchen,
there was a knock on Jarrod's door. Mr. Fong invited in the two porters whose
arms were full of boxes. Jarrod instructed them to take the packages up the
bedroom that Catherine would be using. He smiled at Catherine, taking her hand
and leading her there after them. He thanked the men, who had mounded the boxes
on Catherine's bed, tipped them, then turned to her, chuckling at the
puzzlement on her face.
"Happy birthday!" he laughed.
"It's not my birthday," she admonished.
"Well, I'm sure it's somebody's
birthday," Jarrod grinned, "so we should have gifts and go
celebrate!" His blue eyes twinkled. He reached towards the biggest box.
"This is for you to wear this evening. We're going to the Palace for
dinner." Part of his wire to San Francisco and the Fongs had included
their making arrangements for him to have dinner reservations at the exclusive
Palace Hotel. Jarrod Barkley's name had been sufficient to ensure a table would
be set aside for he and his guest. "I haven't see it yet, so it'll be a
complete surprise to me too! You should find everything that you need in these
other boxes. Undergarments. Shoes. Jewellery."
Catherine was agog that all of these things were for her. She paled, thinking
about how much all of this must have cost Jarrod. Then she looked into his
face, at the happiness and love that was reflected there She couldn't bear to
take that look away. While she was in Jarrod's magic kingdom, she would play
the part of his princess, she decided. "Oh, Jarrod, thank you," she
said softly, kissing his cheek.
"I'm just going to change into my tuxedo and then I'll wait for you
downstairs," Jarrod said jovially. "I know how long you women take to
get yourselves all made up!"
Cadence had finished dinner and Miss Price had brought her back to the drawing
room where they were engaged in another round of checkers. Miss Price remarked
over and over again at how bright Cady was, and what a good little player she
was for such a young child. Jarrod felt proud of Catherine's daughter. He too
had not failed to notice how bright Cadence was. Just like her mother.
He waited nervously now for Catherine. He kept glancing into the mirror,
straightening and re-straightening a bow tie that was already perfect. Cadence
told him that he looked 'beautiful', which caused him to blush. Jarrod felt
like a young man who was going on his first date. His stomache did flip flops while
he paced the room, rubbing his hands together constantly. He wanted everything
to be so perfect for Catherine. This was their first real date alone together.
He wanted it to be special for her. Something that she would always treasure.
Then he saw her, standing in the archway of the drawing room. Jarrod stopped
still, his eyes riveted on the young woman who stood before him. He felt his
throat grow tight, and his heart pounded in his chest. A wave of pure love
washed over him, mingled with desire. Catherine was absolutely stunning.
The dressmaker had created for her a gown of butterscotch raw silk. The bodice
was tight-fitting, the scooped neckline accentuating her generous bosom. The
skirt was flared, standing out over the crinoline underskirts, pleated with
three large box pleats. Dark brown fabric that peered from the underside of the
pleats. The shoulders of the dress were pleated in the same fashion. The cuffs
on the fitted sleeves were trimmed with sable. Around her shoulders she wore a
cashmere cape, a shade lighter than the dress, also trimmed with sable.
Jarrod was thrilled to see that Catherine had left her hair down long, though a
gold clip pulled it slightly back to one side. Around her neck she wore a
choker of brown velvet, in the centre of which rested an ivory cameo. Gold and
ivory drop earrings graced her earlobes. She had put on the faintest
application of burgundy rouge, just enough to highlight her cheekbones, and
burgundy lipstick deepened the colour of her full, sensuous lips. Jarrod's
knees felt weak as he crossed the room to her, and his hands trembled as he
took her forearms. Standing so close to her, he could faintly detect her
perfume. It was slightly spicy, with floral undertones, just as he had
requested Chiu Yi find. Exotic and unlike anything he had ever smelled before.
Catherine felt tears spring to her eyes. She did not need for Jarrod to say
anything. The look in his eyes told her that she had not disappointed him. She
had been overwhelmed when she had begun to open the boxes and packages, and had
found all of the treasures that lay within. She had never thought herself to be
vain, but as she slipped on the satin undergarments, and pulled the lovely silk
gown over her head, and felt herself transform, Catherine had felt herself long
to be pretty.
As she had done up the buttons on the fine, brown, kid leather boots with
fingers that fumbled in her nervousness, and as she did the clasp on the
choker, Catherine found her longing increase. Jarrod had gone to all of this
trouble, just for her. And she wanted to please him. She wanted desperately for
this one night to be the kind of woman who was worthy of taking his arm. She
had applied the make-up with inexpert fingers, critically turning before the
mirror. She had dabbed on the lovely perfume, and slipped the cape around her
shoulders. Shoulders that were partially and decadently bare. She had looked at
the face that was reflected back at her and found that she enjoyed this
feminine primping. Not for all the time, of course, but for this one special
night, she liked how it made her feel. Finally, satisfied that she could do no
more, Catherine had gone downstairs to face the man she loved.
"My God," Jarrod said breathlessly, leaning his forehead towards her,
welcoming the connection of her flesh against his, "you look gorgeous,
Catherine, my love." He moved back a bit then, his eyes still wide with
wonder and appreciation. His deep voice was deeper still, husky with emotion.
"You look like an angel. You are the most incredible vision this city has
ever seen. And I am the luckiest man alive."
Nick stomped into the house, slamming the door behind him.
He took off his black, leather gloves and threw them onto the round table in
the entrance. He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew the letters and the
telegraph wire, and tossed those on top of the gloves. He snatched the hat off
his head and hung it on the coat tree. "Heath?!" he bellowed.
Victoria came through the archway to the right, frowning at the unnecessary
volume. "Nicholas, you're not out on the range, you're inside the
house," she chastized. "And must I remind you that we have a baby
here now? Your nephew Chase is napping and I don't imagine Annabelle will be
too thrilled if you wake him." She came towards her middle son, hoping to
soothe whatever had gotten his dander up this time. She saw the crimson line on
his cheek and reached towards it, compassion changing her tone. "Oh dear,
you've got a scratch. Make sure you get that washed up and put some
disinfectant on it."
"Mother, that's the least of my worries," Nick grumbled. He had
lowered his voice though, and bent to kiss her smooth cheek. "Is Heath
here?"
"Don't you remember, he and one of the hands were riding out to the
Langford's in Harriston this afternoon to bring back that prize breeding bull
you wanted," she prompted his memory. He nodded curtly. "Now what is
the matter, Nick, you're obviously in a dither about something?"
Nick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. There was no point in
getting Mother all upset about this. Not right now. It wasn't a crisis and he
could handle it. He didn't like to bother her with the finite details of the
ranch unless it was a major matter that they should all know about, or one that
required a family concensus before a decision was to be made.
"Just ranch stuff," he allowed. "Something I need to talk to
Heath about, is all." Nick tried to smile, though his toothy grin was
strained. "There's a letter here for you from Gene, and one for Jarrod
also. A couple other things for Jarrod, too. Though I suppose no one has any
idea when he's planning on popping back home again."
Victoria sensed the frustration that underlay Nick's derision. "He said
they'd be gone only a few days, Nick," she defended her oldest son.
"You know Catherine and Cadence went through a horrible experience. I
think he was right to take them somewhere where they wouldn't have to think
about it for a while. It was a caring, decent thing for him to do."
Nick knew that on one level his mother was right. "I suppose, yeah,"
he admitted, feeling somewhat guilty. He didn't begrudge the young woman and
child getting away for a few days. It was his brother's contradictory actions
that had him riled. "And then he gets back and disappears to Sacramento
again for another week," Nick complained.
Victoria sighed in exasperation. "What is wrong with you, Nicholas
Jonathan Barkley? You knew...we all knew...that this campaign was going to mean
that Jarrod wouldn't have much time to devote to the family's affairs right
now. He was upfront about that, and we all agreed to support him! You have
always been one of your brother's biggest sources of encouragement!"
Nick closed his eyes for a moment. None if this was coming out right, he knew.
He didn't really mind Jarrod being gone. And he would give everything he had,
do whatever it took, to help his brother realize his dream. It was just
confusing for him, to watch Jarrod seemingly undermine his own aspirations. But
of course, they'd had this discussion the first night they'd met Catherine, and
Mother had been emphatic in her desire to let Jarrod steer his own course.
Mother didn't know about any of the latest developments, of course. The man
who'd come to Stockton asking about Jarrod and a woman in his life. The fight
with Carson and Wilson at the saloon. The defection of the ranch hands. The way
people were apparantly talking in Stockton about Jarrod and Catherine. Nick was
not going to drag her into any of this though. And so, there was no way to
explain to her just where his concerns lay.
He opened his eyes again, placing his hands on his mother's slender shoulders,
and bending to kiss her cheek again. "I'm sorry, Mother," he told
her. "I've just had a bad day. Of course you know that I support Jarrod
one hundred percent in this bid for the governorship. Now, I'm gonna go wash up
and change and I'll see you at dinner in a bit."
He smiled his most charming smile and was relieved to see her face soften.
After all, he reasoned, the day wasn't a total loss. Heath would be back soon
with that prize Hereford bull Nick had been after for ages. It would be better
than Christmas, when Heath got him back here. That would take some of the edge
off.
Victoria watched her middle son's long, loping stride across the hall and his
effortless scaling of the steps. She could tell that there was something deeper
that was bothering Nick, but he wasn't willing to share it right now. And she
knew that it had something to do with Jarrod, and possibly with Catherine as
well. Victoria had thought that her oldest son's grand gesture of whisking
Catherine and Cadence off to San Francisco was very gallant, and romantic and
thoughtful. And at any other time, it would have been the perfect thing to do.
But Jarrod was less than three weeks from the Republican convention. Even
though he might believe his endorsement by Sam White was enough to carry him
through to the election, Victoria still couldn't believe that Jarrod wasn't in
Sacramento, garnering as much support as he could. It wasn't like Jarrod to be
so haphazard about things. He was the kind of man who paid attention to
details. He was far-sighted and didn't leave things to chance. Jarrod was not
the impulsive, take one day at a time sort, the way his brother Nick was.
Victoria couldn't understand why Jarrod was behaving this way.
And to take Catherine and Cadence to San Francisco of all places. Where Jarrod
was highly visible and well-known even before his foray into politics. He must
know that if they went anywhere in public, they would be seen there, and people
would talk. They were already talking in Stockton, she knew. She'd been in the
mercantile earlier in the week, to pick up some last minute things for
Hallowe'en, and had overheard the whispered speculations that Maddy Jeeves and
another customer had meant her to overhear. About Jarrod and the Indian
woman.
Surely Jarrod must know that people would be talking about his relationship
with Catherine. And this trip to San Francisco might well be the death knell
for his political ambitions. Or, Jarrod might finally wake up and it might mean
the end to his romance with Catherine. Either way, Victoria believed that
things would come to a head in the big city.
Now Nick was out of sorts about something. And Audra, as well. Audra had come
home this afternoon from a ride and had gone straight to her room, not
answering Victoria's knock, and pleading that she had a headache and just
needed to rest. Her daughter had spent the remainder of the afternoon there.
Once, when Victoria had passed by the room, she had thought she heard her
precious girl crying. But she had given her her privacy and continued down the
hall. Like all of her children, Audra would not speak about whatever was
troubling her until she was ready. And, as always, Victoria would not pry, but
she would let her know that she was there whenever she needed her.
Storm clouds were definitely gathering on their horizon, the Barkley matriarch
knew. But they were still in the distance, the thunder and lightning not yet
touching down in their backyard, and Victoria knew there was no point in
worrying about it. Sometimes, the skies would blacken and a storm would blow
over, and sometimes it would move inexorably towards you until it unleashed
it's fury directly above you. Either way, there was nothing you could do but
wait to see how things played out, and then deal with whatever did occur.
So for now, she picked up the mail from the table, feeling the warmth that
spread through her as she recognized her youngest son's distincitive scrawl.
She would take this letter from Gene and go sit in the parlour, and hope that
he only had good news and happiness to share with her, to help push aside her
worry.
* * * * * * * *
Clayton Knowles sat in the library smoking a cigarette, just
killing time until he could go pick up Patricia Vandermeer for their dinner
date. They had spent the last few days since Hallowe'en together, each evening,
and also for lunch once. He had taken her to the theatre, and to dinner and out
dancing. Tonight was a dinner party at Howard Jones's mansion. Jones was an
associate of Knowles, one of the wealthy railroad men, and a prominent
Sacramento investor. Jones had been vocal in his backing of Knowles for the
Republican nomination, and this dinner was an opportunity to court other
prominent Republicans who were so far sitting on the fence as far as the
nomination went.
What a coup it would be, Knowles thought with a thin smile, when he walked into
the room with none other than Miss Patricia Vandermeer on his arm. Patrick
Vandermeer's little girl. Patrick Vandermeer who was a staunch liberal and one
of the biggest backers of Jarrod Barkley. Jarrod Barkley, who was the last
escort of the glorious Patricia, and whom many had expected to soon be
announcing an engagement to the beautiful young woman. If Clayton Knowles could
steal away Jarrod's Patricia, what else might he be able to take from the
dashing counselor, they might wonder?
Each time he was with Patricia, Clay felt something that he couldn't quite
identify. And the feeling was deepening with each second spent in her
prescence, with each lilting word that fell from her perfectly shaped lips, and
with each moment that he gazed into her clear, green eyes. Patricia was physically
stunning, that had been obvious, of course. But what had come as a surprise to
him, an unexpected delight, had been her intelligence. Beautiful women, he'd
learned sadly, while generously endowed on the exterior, were often denied
other deeper charms.
Clay had been thrilled to discover that this was not the case with Patricia
Vandermeer. She was bright enough to hold up her end of a conversation. He had
to give Barkley full credit for his taste. Although the man had been stupid not
to bind him to her earlier with a ring. And even stupider to banish her to the
Vandermeer castle to wait for him to win his precious governorship while he
dallied with his Indian maiden. Still, Barkley had appreciated all that
Patricia had to offer and had done well to court her.
She was his now though, Knowles thought possessively. He would not ever let her
go. She was exactly what he wanted in a woman. A woman who was worthy of
sharing his life and bearing his children. He'd never really thought about
marriage and offspring before...he wasn't one of those men who envied other men
who were tied down to one particular woman, seeing her face day in day out,
while she grew fat and boring raising a passle of brats who may or may not even
be of their loins.
You couldn't trust women, Clay Knowles knew. How many married women had he
himself bedded, while their pompous husbands were locked in their boardrooms,
or getting drunk in their ostentatious private clubs? He knew that he was a
good looking man, and women often threw themselves at his feet. Some were
excited by the power and even the cruelty they sensed in him.
Knowles most recent conquest had been the ditzy Winnie Bostwick a couple of
weeks ago. What a voluptuous figure she had, and what a strong libido. He'd
heard stories that old Wyatt wasn't quite the tiger in the boudoir that he was
in the boardroom, and that poor Winnie, who craved a man, took whatever chance
she could to have one. He'd heard that she was insatiable and had found it to
be almost true, though she was no match for him. By the time he was done with
her, she'd been begging for a rest.
Clay had enjoyed playing his games with her, though he'd been carefeul to tone
down his normal exuberance. She was, after all, the wife of one of Sacramento's
finest, and he didn't want to do anything to damage her physically, anything
that he might find himself called out for later on, when telltale marks told
her husband the tale of her sin. He didn't desire to find himself in some
antiquated duel with a wronged husband. No woman was worth dying over,
especially Winnie Bostwick. Knowles had lost control for one fraction of a
second, striking her face, and leaving a slight bruise. But with all that
make-up the woman wore, it would hardly be noticeable.
It was entirely possible that he might have left one or more of those women
with child over the years, Clay reasoned, and that some pillar of California
society was now raising a brat in whose veins flowed Knowles' blood. His lips
curled to think of that. The truth was, a man just never knew.
With Patricia though, Clay felt that he would know. Once he was certain enough
of her to trust her to forsake all others, he would take her as his bride. And
he found that, oddly enough, the thought of her impossibly tiny waistline
expanding with the growth of his son brought him a strange sense of joy.
So far, he had only kissed her, and touched her through the confines of her
garments. She had been pliant and willing in his arms, her ardour matching his
own. Her lovely perfume had stirred all of his senses. She seemed to have
forgotten all about Barkley, he thought with satisfaction. At first, he had
realized why she was spending time with him. Clay Knowles was no fool. She was
doing it to exact a sort of revenge on Barkley. And that had been just fine,
because it served Knowles' purpose just as well.
But over the last couple of days, he had seen her anger drain, and Clay knew
that Patricia was no longer spending time with him to spite Jarrod Barkley. She
was with him because she wanted to be. She was starting to have feelings for
him. It was only a matter of time before he would take her to bed, and finally
he would expunge all traces of her beloved Barkley. And she would belong to
Clay Knowles completely. But first, he had to be certain that she was truly
devoted to him.
This girl was different. He found that he actually had some sort of feelings
for her. He didn't just want to possess her, he wanted her to give all of
herself to him, physically and emotionally. She aroused in Knowles not just
desire, but some other emotion that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He
only knew that when they were together, he felt like he was on top of the
world.
* * * * * * * *
She didn't know the woman who stood before the looking glass,
staring back at her. Oh, she recognized the face. The wide, green eyes. The
dark, perfectly arched brows. The smooth, ivory skin. The high cheekbones. The
little, pink, bow-shaped mouth. It was her face all right, Patricia Vandermeer
acknowledged.
But why on earth was she all dressed up to go out to this dinner with Clayton
Knowles? She had been spending so much time with him these past few days, ever
since Hallowe'en night, that she hadn't had a moment to even stop and think.
They had been almost inseperable. Incredibly, so wrapped in this upcoming
election was he, that her father hadn't even noticed or cared yet who it was
that she was meeting when she left the house. After tonight though, she was
certain that word would spread like wildfire and talk would have to penetrate
that fog he was living in. After all, this wasn't just a social function, it
was a political function they were attending this evening. Her prescence there
with Clay Knowles would speak volumes.
What would he say, her father? He'd be furious! It would be an embarassment to
him, no doubt, for his eldest daughter to be seen escorted about the city by a
political rival. Especially since she had last been seeing her father's chosen
candidate, the esteemed Jarrod Barkley.
Patricia blinked hard to keep the tears that were forming in her eyes, from
spilling down her cheeks, leaving tracks in her face powder. She had accepted
that whatever had been between she and Jarrod was dead now. That didn't mean
that she didn't love him any more. She would love him until the day she died,
she thought. Even if she were to one day marry, and raise a family, no man
could ever take Jarrod Barkley's place in her heart. Even after what he had
done to her. He might not have any feelings for her any longer, might never
have really had feelings for her...but that couldn't change the way her foolish
heart held his image cloistered in it's depths.
She supposed that since she would never love again, it didn't really matter who
she went out with now. Whether or not it was Clayton Knowles, or Greg Hancock,
or William Forrester. And Clay Knowles was being very nice to her. He treated
her well. And his witty conversation, and the fun things they did together,
helped her to forget all about Jarrod Barkley. Except for when Clay took her in
his arms and his searching lips found hers. Then, she would close her eyes and
allow herself to pretend that it was Jarrod's arms around her, and Jarrod's
lips exerting their masterful pressure.
And there was an element of retribution in her actions. She was no longer angry
at Jarrod, or his sister Audra. Hurt. Bewildered. Baffled. But no longer
actively seeking revenge. If, however, Jarrod were to hear that Patricia was
being courted by his hated opponent Clay Knowles, that might just embarass or
humiliate Jarrod the way she had been humiliated. She didn't want to hurt him,
not really. But she wanted to make a statement that would allow her some
modicum of pride.
She sighed, spritzing on her perfume. The perfume Jarrod had given her. She
smiled to herself, recalling how Clay had complimented her on it. She had been
on the verge of telling Clay that it had been a gift from Jarrod, but had
decided against it. She had sensed that such a revelation would incense him,
and she believed that he was not a man whose wrath one would want to incur. She
sensed an underlying cruelty in him.
Yet, she was readying herself to go out with Clay Knowles again. She simply
didn't have the will to refuse his persistence. She felt she was drifting
through her days like a ship that has come lose from it's moorings, and that
she could no more control her destiny than the unfortunate craft could control
it's path. As the ship was at the mercy of the waves, and the currents, so
Patricia was at the mercy of Clayton Knowles.
* * * * * * * *
Heath slowed Charger down, the nearer they got to the ranch.
Normally, it was the other way around. Whenever he drew closer to home, Heath
would urge the big red horse to a gallop, eager to close the gap between
himself and the ones he loved. Charger knew they were close to the ranch, and
he was confused. He strained on the bit, tossed his mane and whickered, as his
muscles quivered with the urge to run.
Today though, Heath was not in a hurry to get back to the ranch. He was looking
forward to seeing Belle and Chase, of course, and Mother and Audra as well. But
not to seeing Nick. No siree, he was not looking forward to facing his older
brother and telling him that that prize bull he'd set his heart on, was not going
to be improving the bloodlines of the Barkley cattle any time soon.
Heath and Red Archer had saddled up shortly after lunch for the hour and a half
ride to Harriston to pick up the new bull Nick had purchased from Al Langford.
Langford had been consistently breeding quality Hereford stock, and when one of
his prize bulls went up for sale, Nick had wired him immediately to say he'd
take him. No quibbling over price, either. Nick had offered the full asking
amount and wired the bank in Harriston to write out a draft to Langford.
Since the bull didn't travel well by rail, and there was chance that he could
get injured if he got too ornery, Heath had volunteered to ride out to
Harriston with one of the hands to fetch the bull home. It would probably be closer
to three hours coming back, as the bull wouldn't travel nearly as fast as the
horses could. But Heath didn't mind, or consider it a wasted day, because he
was doing it for Nick. One of them had to sign the papers transfering
ownership, and Nick was taking Jarrod, Catherine and Cadence to Stockton to
catch the train, and then tend to some personal matters, so Heath was happy to
do this for his older sibling.
Besides, it was a simple, stress-free task. Ride out to Harriston, which was a
scenic trip, sign for the bull, and then make the sedate journey back again.
And Heath had selected Red to accompany him, because, like himself, Red wasn't
a big talker, and would be content to just ride alongside, keeping his own
counsel, thinking his own thoughts.
Heath had known there was something wrong from the moment they were greeted by
the scowling face of Langford's foreman, Chet Dean. "Don't bother gettin'
down," Dean had drawled. "Ya can turn around and head right back ta
Stockton."
"What are ya talkin' 'bout Dean?" Heath had asked irritably. "We
just rode all the way out here to pick up that breedin' bull for Nick."
"That bull's been sold," Dean announced.
"Ya, I know, Nick paid for him. The draft's already been cashed,"
Heath sighed. Obviously there had been some mix up in the chain of command
here. Dean didn't realize that it was Nick who'd bought the bull. Heath
couldn't understand why Dean was being so unfriendly though, or why he hadn't
invited he and Red in for coffee, or a belt, or to dip their heads under the
pump and freshen up. Heath didn't understand why Dean wouldn't just offer to go
check things out with his boss.
Dean shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "That bull's been
sold to Ike Montgomery," he said stubbornly. "Check yer bank. That
money Nick sent's been returned back."
"I don't get this," Heath said warily. "What the heck is goin'
on here? Let me speak to Al." Red's dun mare was alongside Charger, but
the hand looked off into the distance, not wanting to get involved in something
that wasn't his business.
"Mr. Langford ain't here. And he asked me to deal with this."
"Look," Heath said, his anger rising. "I came to pick up that
bull and I aim to take 'im. If you've done sold him twice or somethin', that's
your problem. But we were first in line, and Al accepted Nick's offer. If that
bull's here, he's comin' back to Stockton."
Chet Dean uncrossed his arms and his hand dropped to his hip. "I don't
want no trouble, Heath," he said coldly. "But I'm under the strictest
orders from Mr. Langford. You ain't gettin' that bull. He ain't gonna deal with
you Barkleys, he said."
Now Heath was confused. They'd had numerous dealings with Al Langford over the
years. Cattle amongst other things. The trading off of stock had helped both
herds to expand their gene pool and had improved the overall quality of the
animals. There had never been any problems between them before. Not even so
much as a hint of dissatisfaction or ill will. Heath couldn't grasp this change
of heart, or even venture a guess as to where this animosity was coming from.
"What the heck is this all about, Dean?! I got a right to know!"
Heath insisted. His cheeks had coloured. He was embarassed by the situation,
and about the fact that it was playing out in front of one of the hands. But
there was no chance to talk to Al privately, and Dean didn't seem inclined to
even offer them the bare minimum of hospitality.
"Mr. Langford said he ain't dealing with your kind no more," Dean
said through narrowed eyes.
Heath tightened his grip on his saddlehorn, as a wave of nausea crashed over
him. Your kind. This
was his fault. This
was about him.
Langford had decided he didn't want to deal with any bastards.
Heath's old humiliation burned in his gut. He felt as though he'd let his
brother down. Let his whole family down. He didn't know why this was surfacing
after so many years, but it was.
"Well then, how 'bout I just stay outta any dealin's with Langford
then," Heath humbled himself. "I'll send Nick back hisself to take the
exchange of the bull."
Dean looked confused. "Don't matter if'n it's you or Nick, or anyone else
from the Barkley spread, Heath," he informed him. "Yer money's no
good here anymore. Mr. Langford ain't doin' business with redskin lovers! He
heard how you got that squaw livin' under your roof!"
Heath gave a gasp of understanding. This didn't have anything to do with him at
all. But it was still prejudiced, discriminatory thinking, from small-minded,
petty folk. "I think I understand now, Dean," Heath said, his words
low, hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't worry. You ain't gonna have ta
worry 'bout dealin' with the Barkley's anymore. We
don't deal with the bigoted likes of you!"
Dean's laughter had followed Heath and Red as they cantered back down the dusty
road and through the main gates of the Langford spread. And neither Heath nor
Red had said a single word on the ride back towards Stockton. Heath made it a
long, slow ride, the horses at a walk, or sometimes a trot...as Heath gave
himself time while he fought to think all this through.
Heath wondered what kind of mood Nick was in, as he pulled up in front of the
stable and dismounted agilely from Charger, handing the reins to Red. Heath was
still angry at this turn of events. The shock and disbelief had passed, and now
he was left with bitterness. It wasn't so much just the loss of the bull that
bothered Heath, though that was likely to send Nick into a rage. It was the
more long-reaching consequences of what had happened today that were worrying
him.
Using his hat to brush the dust off his clothes, Heath squared his shoulders
and headed for the house. Dinner would be almost ready, but somehow...Heath
wasn't feeling real hungry.
The carriage pulled through the arches of the enormous
eight-storey structure, and into the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel. Jarrod
had directed Catherine to look out the window as they had approached the grand
hotel, situated on the south side of Market Street, between New Montgomery and
Third.
It was the largest and most luxurious in the world. She had been overwhelmed at
the height of the building, towering so far up into the darkened sky, seeming
to scrape the heavens. The arched palladian ground floor windows were all lit.
Welcoming eyes in the darkness, they beckoned travellers in. The carriage
entrance, situated right inside the hotel grounds, was under cover of an
emmense dome of glass, two stories high, beyond which extended the indigo of
the night sky.
A footman opened the carriage door, and Jarrod stepped out, turning to offer Catherine
his hand. She really did feel like a princess as she gathered her skirts and
climbed slowly from the carriage. The footman closed the door, the driver
called to his handsome, matched grey geldings, and in unison the four horses
picked up their hooves and moved to circle inside the entrance and turned
direction to leave again. The clip-clopping of their synchronized steps could
have been the passage of a single steed.
Catherine gazed around in wonder. Jarrod stood watching her, his smile
dazzling. He had hoped to impress her, and the Palace was the most
awe-inspiring piece of architecture in the city. All around the Garden Court,
graceful marble columns of gold and cream, as thick as tree trunks and just as
tall, soared towards the ceiling. Gold leaf sconces reflected flickering light.
Huge clay pots were overflowing with palmetto trees and other greenery.
Everywhere there were arches and curves, and gilded details. And they weren't
even inside the hotel proper yet! This was just the place where the carriages
dropped off their wealthy, privileged passengers.
"Let's go in," Jarrod urged in a gentle whisper, as another carriage
pulled up behind them. He took Catherine's arm and they walked across the red,
silk carpet and into the diningroom.
Catherine was nervous that she might stumble, being unaccustomed to the
high-heeled boots she had on. They added a couple of inches to her height, so
that she was as tall as Jarrod now. She pulled the cashmere wrap tigher about
her shoulders, suddenly very conscious of the daring decolletage of her dress,
and all of the exposed skin.
She held her breath as Jarrod gave his name to the doorman, who smiled
graciously and greeted him warmly. It was apparant that Jarrod was no stranger
here. The maitre d' himself came forward to escort them to their table. There
was not the slightest flicker of malice, disdain, or even curiosity in the
man's eyes as he held out Catherine's chair for her, bidding them both to have
a wonderful evening and to let him know personally if anything at all did not
meet with their expectations. He took their outer garments, Catherine's
fur-lined cape, and Jarrod's long, black topcoat, then excused himself.
A waiter was at Jarrod's elbow in a moment, pouring water into crystal goblets
from a silver pitcher. He placed two leather-bound menus on their charger
plates, offered to explain that night's chef's special when he returned, and
asked if they would like anything to drink for the moment. Jarrod consulted
with Catherine before ordering a bottle of champagne. The waiter gave a slight
bow.
Catherine couldn't help the way her eyes roved their surroundings. She had
never been in a more beautiful room. The vaulted ceilings were painted with
works that mimicked the old masters. Austrian leaded chrystal chandeliers lent
illunimation to the room. There were stained glass panels everywhere, and
ornate gilding on every raised surface. There were marble columns here as well,
and more of the gigantic clay pots spilling over with lush greenery.
The tables, set far enough apart to afford diners their privacy, were
glittering displays of crystal and china. Golden linen tablecloths draped over
the tops, and low, crystal vases with artfully arranged floral displays
anchored the tableau. Two tapered cream-coloured candles flickered on either
side of the vase.
"This is beautiful," Catherine whispered to Jarrod. "I couldn't
have even begun to imagine such loveliness." And then there was Jarrod,
resplendent in his black tuxedo, with the white, ruffled shirt. Gold cufflinks
with a burnished oval surface, and scored edges, gleamed at his wrists. His
black hair was swept back from his forehead. His incredibly blue eyes were
vivid against his artistocratic features. She loved the deep crease in his
smooth-shaven chin. Jarrod was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she had
ever seen.
Jarrod smiled at her across the table. "You, my love, eclipse it
all."
He asked Catherine about her arm, concerned still that the wound might be
troubling her. He had checked it for her earlier, changing the dressing, and
had been pleased at how clean it looked, the skin that puckered around the
stitches it's natural colour, no redness, or oozing to give alarm. While it
seemed to be healing well, thankfully, he was still worried that it might be
painful or tender. She reassured him that she barely gave it any thought
anymore, and that it was not hindering her at all.
Catherine was overwhelmed by the selections on her menu. Jarrod made some
suggestions of dishes he had tried in the past and particularly enjoyed. When
their waiter brought the standing silver bucket that held their champagne, he
told them about the chef's special that evening. Spicy grilled and blackened
seafood, including scallops, shrimp and salmon, served over a bed of Cajun
rice, with green beans on the side, and a tossed salad.
Catherine's mouth watered in anticipation of such a treat and she told the
waiter that would be wonderful. Jarrod ordered prime rib with au jus, Yorkshire
pudding, mashed, garlic potatoes, and a vegetable medly. Jarrod suggested they
share an appetizer first, of escargot stuffed mushroom caps. Catherine had
never had snails before, but was willing to give it a try.
The waiter skillfully opened the pressurized bottle of champagne, a napkin
muffling the popping sound, then he poured a bit into Jarrod's champagne flute.
Jarrod tasted it and nodded his pleasure. The waiter continued to fill Jarrod's
glass, then Catherine's, then set the bottle back in the bucket and took his
leave.
Jarrod raised his glass, and waited for Catherine to do the same with hers. He
looked at her across the table, marvelling in how beautiful she was. "I
never imagined that it was possible to feel this way about someone, Catherine.
To love so deeply and to truly feel as loved in return. Your beauty transcends
the physical, your spirit transcends all time. 'I
live for you who loves me, whose heart is kind and true. I live for you who
loves me, for you who knows me true.' "
Jarrod quoted the poem changing it slightly. "Whatever may come in this
life, may you never forget that my love for you is enduring. You haven't just
captured my heart, sweet Catherine, you've claimed my soul." He clinked
his glass against hers, then brought his to his lips and sipped the sparkling
wine.
Catherine blushed. She thought that those were perhaps the most beautiful words
she had ever heard. Jarrod truly did have a poetic soul, just as she had
intuited that very first day she had met him. To be sitting here now across for
him, to have the love of this wonderful, incredible man, was the pinnacle of
happiness. "Thank you," she said huskily, then sipped from her own
glass.
Dinner was superb. Catherine found that the snails didn't have much taste in
themselves, but drenched with the hot, garlicky butter and nestled inside the
button mushroom cap, they were quite a delicious morsel. The sizes of the
portions of their main meals were almost obscene, Catherine thought. So much
food! One plate would feed she and Cadence both for a few days. Everything was delicious
though, and she ate and ate until she couldn't possibly pass another forkful
through her lips. Catherine had two glasses of the champagne and was feeling
very light-hearted and uninhibited.
Jarrod was hardly even aware of his own meal, as he relished watching Catherine
enjoy hers. She deserved this. Beautiful clothes and fine food and lovely
surroundings. She deserved to be happy and carefree and to have other people
tending to her needs for a change. Jarrod had brought her to the Palace for
their first night in San Francisco, because he had known that here they would
be treated well.
Here, no one would dare raise an eyebrow, or speak to Catherine with contempt.
Here, they would be allowed to live out their fantasy, and even if anyone had
an ignorant or bigoted thought, they would not voice it tonight. Neither staff
nor patrons. This was the Palace, where everyone was treated as a king or
queen, where diners were circumspect and, within the confines of this majestic
building at least, minded their own business. Jarrod knew that if anyone dared
to spoil this for Catherine, to take even one iota of the pleasure of this
evening from her with an ill-conceived look or word, he would personally see to
it that the rest of their life was a misery.
Jarrod wanted this trip to be special for Catherine and Cadence...as memorable
as he could possibly conceive and create. Catherine, with her kind heart and
gentle, honest ways, with her remarkable strength and beautiful, intelligent
soul, had led him through the darkness where he had wallowed, to the light on
the other side. Jarrod was not ever going back there again, back to that murky
place where poisoned talons gripped his will and held him down.
Once more the world was a place of hope and happiness, and it was all because
of Catherine, and her daughter Cady. There was nothing he wouldn't do for
either of them, these two who had breathed life into what had only been the
lonely shell of a man.
Two full for dessert, they ordered coffee once their meals had been cleared
away, as Jarrod lit a cigar. Once they ceased to dine, a couple of other Palace
patrons stopped by their table briefly, to exchange pleasantries with Jarrod,
to inquire after his family back in Stockton, and to wish him well with the
election and offer their support. Jarrod introduced Catherine, and each person
smiled politely at her, nothing in their mask of social graces indicating that
they were at all shocked or appalled to see her with him.
At the first approach, Catherine had tensed visibly, afraid that there was
going to be a scene that would ruin their evening.Afraid that she would cause
Jarrod embarassment, and that he would regret his decision to bring her here.
But when she saw how polite people were, she relaxed, even exchanging pleasantries
in return. Catherine wondered if this treatment was because of Jarrod, out of
respect for him, or whether it had anything to do with the fact that in these
clothes she herself looked like a fine, society lady, or whether it was because
of where they were. Perhaps, it was a combination of all three.
The waiter brought their bill, slipped discreetly between the leather bindings
of small folder that rested on a silver tray. Jarrod glanced at it, then laid
several large bills within. After their coffee, Jarrod asked for their coats,
draping them over his arm. Then he rose and took Catherine's hand. He indicated
to the waiter that everything had been perfect and he should extend their
compliments to the chef, then remarked that they were going to stretch their
legs now, and go for a walk through the hotel.
"You have to see the Grand Court," Jarrod whispered to Catherine, as
he guided her through the maze of tables, deeper into the building, his hand at
her elbow. "It's the centrepiece of the Palace. I'd wager you've never
seen anything like it."
As impressive as the Garden Court carriage entrance had been, as beautiful as
the diningroom had been, Jarrod was correct, Catherine had never seen anything
to rival the magnificence of the Palace Hotel's Grand Court. Her breath caught
in her throat at the spectacular vision that greeted them. The grandeur, luster
and opulence could never be adequately described in the retelling, Catherine
knew.
The Grand Court measured one hundred and forty-four feet, by eighty-four feet.
It was an interior courtyard stretching impossibly upwards, storey after
storey, until it was finally capped by the gracefully arched glass roof. It was
surrounded on four sides by seven stories of greenery-draped balconies. Citrus
trees, including lemon, lime and orange, gave off their mingled fragrances,
scenting the air.
Jarrod took Catherine's arm and drew her across the marbled floor to the centre
of the courtyard where a marble fountain rose up. The purl of flowing water
echoed off the walls in symphonic measure. Catherine stood next to it, reaching
to dip her fingers in the cool waters, touching her fingers to the hollow of
her throat, in a gesture that Jarrod found stirring.
On either side of them were enormous staircases that lead to the second floor
promenade. There were a few couples down here in the courtyard proper, but many
more strolled arm in arm on the upper level, enjoying the elevated view.
Eventually, Jarrod suggested to Catherine that they ascend to the promenade and
she agreed. He loved the wideness of her dark eyes, and the way they sparkled
with awe.
On the upper level, they stood against the balcony, and from this different
perspective, the area was just as impressive and lovely. Jarrod stood behind
Catherine, his chin resting on her right shoulder, his left arm draped loosely
around her waist. Other lovers passed them by, seeming to be only peripherally
aware that there were other people here this night, absorbed in the wonder of
their own passions. Catherine loved the feel on Jarrod's chin nestled in close
to her neck, his breath faintly warm against her skin. Standing that way, so
close to him, she felt the desire that flooded through her.
Jarrod seemed to sense her growing passion, as the electricity transferred
itself to his own body. He stole a glance up and down the length of the
promenade. Situated as they were between a great marble pillar and a potted
orange tree, this nook affording them some privacy, he turned her slightly in
his arms. His lips claimed hers for only a moment, holding sweet promise, as
they both felt the stirrings in their body's depths.
Jarrod continued to hold Catherine for several more minutes, neither of them
speaking. When at last he knew that some of the magic of this second-storey
view might be fading, he turned her in his arms again. With her fashionable
boots, she was as tall as he was now, looking him levelly in the eye. He took
her elbows in his hands and smiled at her. "I have one more thing to show
you," he said softly, his blue eyes alight with expectation.
Holding her hand, Jarrod took Catherine to a bank of doors. She heard a low,
rumbling sound and then one of the doors slid open sideways. A young man in a
crisp red and white uniform stood stiffly in a small room. "Going
up," he said, holding the door for them.
Jarrod nodded, then led Catherine inside. The door was closed again. There was
no one esle inside the little room. There was a sudden trembling of the floor,
and the sensation that they were moving, and Catherine's eyes widened in alarm,
as she clutched at Jarrod's sleeve. "It's all right," he murmured
quietly against her ear.
The movement stopped, and the young man opened the door again. "Going
up," he announced. An older man with a lovely young red-headed woman
stepped into the room. The man nodded and smiled to Jarrod and Catherine as
they moved further back to accomodate the other couple. The red-headed woman
smiled at them as well, her glance on Jarrod lingering a little longer than
Catherine might have liked.
The moving room stopped again two additional times, and one more couple stepped
in, a young blonde couple, who were holding hands and gazing into one another's
eyes. He had on a tuxedo, she had on an elegant white wedding gown, and the
anticipation they exuded was tangible.
At last the doors opened a final time. Jarrod was slipping Catherine's cape
around her shoulders, and they disembarked with the other couples. Catherine
looked around in mild confusion. They were seemingly at the very top of the
hotel, only darkness extending beyond the roofline. She stood hesitantly while
their companions moved off.
"What was that, Jarrod?" she asked excitedly.
"A rising room," he smiled at her. "An elevator, it's also
called. There are five of them here in the hotel. They're quite the novelty!
Instead of having to walk up flight after flight of stairs, they take you right
up to whatever level you want to be on. I'm sorry, perhaps I should have
prepared you for it," he added.
Catherine shook her head. "That's all right. I wouldn't have known what to
expect anyhow. That's not the sort of thing you can really prepare someone for.
It needs to be experienced." She laughed lightly, alleviating his
concerns.
"Welcome to the Crystal Roof Garden," Jarrod announced. He slipped
into his own topcoat. Even though they were still under glass, the dome wasn't
much of a barrier to the fall night's chill that seemed to seep through. Then
he linked Catherine's arm through his.
This was the pinnacle of the tour. The skylit conservatory, under the
blue-black blanket of darkness now, and lit with gas lamps, was the architect's
crowning glory. Everywhere there was statuary, and little benches to rest on,
and again pots filled with the unmistakeable scent of citrus. Jarrod guided
Catherine to the interior edge of the garden, slipping one hand firmly around
her waist and watched her intently as her dark eyes took in the scene that
greeted them.
They had a panoramic view of the Grand Court, seven stories below. Catherine
gasped, shrinking back against him as she had that day on the outcropping
overlooking the valley. She felt dizzy, looking so far below to the place they
had just come from. From above, the enormous fountain looked small. She too
thought of the day of the picnic with Jarrod, and the natural wonders they had
enjoyed. This was a different kind of majesty...a man-made variety, but no less
impressive. Feeling more secure as Jarrod brought his other arm around her,
Catherine leaned forward again to peer downward.
"This is magnificent," she murmured. "I will never forget this
view as long as I live."
Jarrod pressed his head towards her, smiling into the thick, dark tresses of
Catherine's hair. "I had hoped you would enjoy it," he told her
quietly.
They stayed for a while, wandering among the gardens, and commenting on the
carved and chiselled statues that adorned them, coming to rest on a marble
bench. Jarrod filled Catherine in on the history's hotel. She had gaped at him
when he had informed her that the Palace Hotel had been built at a final cost
of five million dollars. It was the dream of William Ralston, a rich investor
and President of the Bank of California. The original budget had been under two
million, but that much had been spent of the foundation and ground floor alone.
Ralston had sunk almost all of the banks' holdings into the opulent details of
the Palace, wanting the structure to live up to it's name. The rooms featured
rosewood panelling, marble floors, silk draperies and fine Irish linens. Each
room had it's own fireplace, watercloset and bay window. There were also call
buttons, so that a guest's every whim could be met.
"In an attempt to restore the bank's finances," Jarrod explained to
Catherine, "Ralston began frantically purchasing mining stock. But the
Ralston mines proved to be worthless and there was a massive run on the bank. I
remember the panic. It ended up that Ralston owed the bank four and one half
million dollars.
"A few days later, he went swimming in the Bay, as was his routine, out in
North Beach. He drowned and his body was found later. His dream survived though
and on October second, 1875, the Palace Hotel opened it's doors. I was here
with Mother for the opening."
Catherine bowed her head in thought. "I gather that because of the
financial problems, William Ralston committed suicide?" Catherine asked
sadly.
Jarrod sighed. "It's assumed so, though no one witnessed what actually
occured. He was a strong swimmer though, and the waters were calm that
day."
"It's a beautiful building," Catherine commented. "And since it
was erected and stands here now, I am glad that I was able to share in it's
wonders. But...but I can't help think how sad it is, that a man died because of
it. Because of something as transient as money. I understand that he had a
dream and that people enjoy beautiful things. I'd be lying if I said I haven't
loved every minute here, Jarrod, or that the lavishness of dinner and our
surroundings didn't appeal to me.
"But all that money that was spent in it's creation...it almost seems
sinful. A hospital could have been built. So many unfortunate people could have
been fed and sheltered. And then this hotel was built, strictly for the
enjoyment of people who already have so much in life. I feel a bit guilty, to
take pleasure from it. And yet, this has been one of the most wonderful nights
of my life, and I appreciate more than I can express your sharing these wonders
with me."
Jarrod heard the conflict in her voice. He sensed that she felt she was being
disloyal to him somehow to even be voicing these thoughts. And he felt bound to
her deeper still, knowing that he had also had such thoughts, when he had
attended the opening. He hadn't paused to consider that those feelings would be
even more intense for Catherine, coming as she did from a life that allowed
little in the way of material comforts.
"Do not ever be afraid to speak to me the words that are in your heart,
Catherine," Jarrod told her, reaching to cup her chin in his fingers, his
thumb caressing her jawline. "I too have similar thoughts. And you are
right, it isn't fair that some live so well, and others must struggle. And an
equitable distribution of riches would be ideal. But we don't live in an
Utopian world.
"I try to console myself with the knowledge that this hotel, while it was
being built, employed many men, and put food on the tables of many families.
And it continues to do so today, with all of the people that it employs. It
offers people who might otherwise not have work, a chance to earn a living. And
the hotel's grandeur and elegance draws people to the city. Wealthy people who
might then decide to invest in this fine city, thereby helping all who live
here. And even just their visits stimulates the local economy, and every dollar
they spend here, helps someone in the community to work and survive."
Catherine looked at Jarrod with such respect and adulation that he felt deeply
humbled. "I hadn't thought of it like that," Catherine admitted.
"What you have just said is true. Everything that someone does, touches
someone else. It's a never-ending chain, isn't it? I'm sure that the waiter who
brought our meal, and the chambermaid who changes the bed linens, are grateful
that this hotel is here. As are those who depend on them." She reached to
squeeze his hand. "I enjoy the different perspectives you share with me
about things, Jarrod Barkley. You are a wise and informed man. And even though
you live in one world, I know that in your heart, you pass through and consider
them all."
Jarrod thought that that was about the highest praise he had ever received. To
have Catherine's approval and understanding meant more to him than the cheers
and thunderous applause that had greeted him at the Bostwick's dinner party
that night. "You are the most incredible woman I have ever know,"
Jarrod told her. "I love you so." He took her hand, bringing it to
his lips, kissing it reverently. He felt the callouses on her palm and the
underside of her fingers. Badges of honour, he thought to himself. A testimony
to her will to survive and to her pride and her ingenuity. "Shall we go
home?" he inquired softly.
Miss Price was waiting up for them in the drawingroom, reading by the dying
embers of a fire. She smiled when they entered, and reported that Cadence had
had a good evening. They had played checkers for a while, and then Cady had
gone off to bed without any fuss. Miss Price excused herself for the night, and
headed off to her room, nodding at Catherine and Jarrod's words of thanks.
Catherine checked on Cady who was sleeping with arms and legs askew, and had
knocked off the corner of the covers. She kissed her daughter tenderly on the
cheeks, pulled the blankets up to her chin, then went back downstairs to join
Jarrod. He was standing with one elbow on the mantle, a glass of bourbon in his
other hand. Catherine crossed the room to stand behind him, slipping her arm
under his and around his middle, resting her chin on his shoulder, her cheek
tickled by the short hairs at the back of his neck.
"Thank you for a beautiful evening," she said softly. "Everything
was just perfect, Jarrod."
He sighed contentedly. It had been perfect, but not because of their elegant
surroundings, or their first-class meal. It had been perfect because he had
shared it with Catherine. No more or less perfect than his first meal with she
and Cady in their shack, eating rabbit stew and galellette.
It was Catherine's company that made it special for him.
He finished his drink, then poked around in the grate until the fire was almost
out. At last, reluctant to part from her, he took Catherine's hand and led the
way upstairs. He too ducked his head into Cadence's room, the sight of her
small, sleeping form, filling him with happiness. Then he stopped outside
Catherine's door.
"Sweet dreams," he whispered, pulling her towards him for a brief
kiss. His body screamed in protest when he drew away from her. The thought of
her sleeping so near was going to be torture, and Jarrod knew it would be along
time before he fell asleep that night. But he hadn't brought Catherine here for
convenience's sake, or so he could enjoy her physically. As much as he wanted
her, he wanted her to know that that wasn't what this trip was all about.
"Good night, Jarrod," Catherine whispered back. Her own body tingled
to be close to his, but she merely smiled and went into her room.
Eventually, though it had been difficult, Jarrod had fallen asleep. He was
awakened sometime later, by the movement and pressure on the mattress next to
him as another body slid beneath the covers, and then by the soft lips on his.
He didn't even open his eyes, abandoning himself to the pressure of Catherine's
mouth on his. He reached for her, feeling the satiny softness of her
undergarments, groaning when her hand slipped under his nightshirt and traced a
path up his thigh.
"I want you," she said huskily, those simple words stoking in Jarrod
a raging fire.
Their lovemaking was fevered, their aching bodies tumbling across the bed,
their need consuming all thought. Their shared passion, the culmination of
their mutual love and desire raising them to incredible heights as their bodies
declared their love for one another. 'Now,'
thought Catherine to herself as they lay together afterwards, her head on
Jarrod's chest, her fingers lightly exploring the scattering of hair there,
their legs entwined, 'everything really is
perfect'.
Breakfast at the Barkley table was no more enjoyable than
dinner had been the night before. Annabelle gave up on her attempts at
pleasantries, as each smile, question or comment was met with blank stares or
pained expressions. Except for Nick, who seemed to be able to eat no matter
what life threw at him, appetites were almost non-existant. Annabelle rocked
Chase in her arms. Even the infant seemed to sense that there was a pall over
the mansion, and lay there quietly, sucking on his fist.
There had been a terrible scene when Heath had returned home yesterday without
the breeding bull that Nick had had his heart set on. Nick, Victoria and she
had been sitting in the parlour, Annabelle working on some needlepoint, while
Victoria held her grandson in her lap. Nick had sat in the chair normally
reserved for Jarrod, and had nursed a glass of whiskey, a stormy mask on his
rugged features. Audra had been in self-imposed exile in her room, where she
had spent most of the afternoon.
Nick had heard Heath come through the front door, and had leapt to his feet, a
genuine smile creasing his face for the first time that afternoon. He'd
barreled out of the parlour, hurrying to meet his sandy-blond brother in the
foyer.
"Well?" Nick had asked with a grin. "Where is he?!"
The women had heard his enthusiam from their places in the parlour. They didn't
catch whatever it was that Heath mumbled in response, but there was no
mistaking Nick's angry response.
"WHAT THE HECK DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T GET HIM!" came the resounding
blast.
Victoria shook her head, set Chase in his bassinette, gave Annabelle a helpless
look, and hurried out to the foyer herself. Annabelle listened to Victoria
vainly trying to convince Nick to lower his voice. She had heard her husband
speak then.
"I mean Langford changed his mind about sellin' him to us, Nick,"
Heath told him.
"Well, we'll just see about that!" Nick thundered. "We had a
deal! I've already paid for that bull!"
"Dean said the money's been sent back to the bank in Stockton," Heath
told him dispiritedly.
"Well, I'm gonna get cash, and ride back there and pick him up
myself!" Nick declared. "This is just some ploy to try to get me to
up my price! Well it won't work!"
"Naw, Nick, it ain't that," Heath said ruefully. "Langford sold
the bull to someone else instead." Nick swore, then immediately apologized
to his mother. Heath's blue eyes shifted to Victoria and then back to his
dark-haired brother. "Maybe we can go discuss this somewhere," he
advised.
"Now Heath, if there's something going on, I want to know about it,"
Victoria insisted.
"Say whatever it is you've got to say," Nick nodded curtly.
Heath told them about the exchange between himself and Al Langford's foreman
Chet Dean. He left out the part about thinking this had had something to do
with the circumstances of his birth. He glanced down at the floor, unable to
look them in the face, when he repeated what had been said about the Barkley's
being 'redskin lovers'. Annabelle heard it all clearly from the other room,
gasping as her husband disclosed this last bit.
When Heath looked up again, it was into Nick's apoplectic features, the
scarlett flush starting at his neck and extending up into his cheeks. Nick's
mouth was set in a grim line, his dark eyes flashing. "Why that son of
a....." he caught himself in time, choking back the words that threatened
to pour forth in a virulent stream. "Of all the low down, stinkin', dirty
rotten things..."
Nick tossed his head like a wild stallion, his raven hair tumbling in unruly
fashion. "Accepting that money was an intent to do business," Nick
growled. "I'm sure there's some kind of legal thingamajig here, some kind
of action we can take against Langford!" Nick scowled. "Jarrod will
know. Langford hasn't heard the last from me yet!"
"Nick," Heath interjected. "You ain't gettin' that bull. And
even if there was some legal way to force Langford to hand 'im over, if he
hasn't actually sold 'im to someone else and it sounds like he's done just
that...do you really still want to deal with the man? After what Dean told
me?" Heath prompted. He gave Nick a moment to consider this. "And do
you honestly think Jarrod will want to, or will want to get involved in any of
this, when he hears why Langford reneged on the deal in the first place?"
"Heath's right, Nick," Victoria said quietly. "We can't deal with
a man like that."
Nick drew a ragged breath, feeling trapped and disoriented. Too much was
happening, too quickly for him to absorb. It wasn't just the loss of the bull,
which he had had his heart set on for some time, but the way he felt that
invisible walls were closing in around him. "No, no of course not,"
he mumbled at last. "Don't know what I was thinkin'. There'll be other
bulls." Then he had picked up his hat and marched out the front door.
"I'll go with him, Mother," Heath said, at the concern in Victoria's
eyes.
The men had returned for dinner, but it had been an uncomfortable meal. The
only sounds had been the scraping of utensils against the plates, as the diners
pushed food around distractedly. Everyone had noted Audra's swollen, red-rimmed
eyes, which had caused pangs of concern on the faces of her older brothers.
They were both extremely protective of their little sister, and any pain felt
by her was reflected two-fold in their own hearts.
Nick's persistent, worried questioning had at last resulted in the sniffled
disclosure that Audra and Bobby Olson were no longer going to be keeping
company. Nick, who was seated next to the young woman, reached over awkwardly
and patted her back, mumbling 'there, there' in embarassment. This gesture of
caring had caused Audra to dissolve into tears, and she had pushed back from
the table and fled from the room.
Annabelle had seen Victoria's speculative look at her daughter's news. While
both men seemed to believe it was just 'one of those things' or a simple
'lover's quarrel', both Annabelle and Victoria seemed to sense that there was
something more intricate involved here, some undercurrents that they were not
yet privy to. The remainder of the meal had passed in silence, until finally
giving up the pretense, the family had retired from the table, and drifted to
the billiards room for coffee.
Victoria and Annabelle had attempted to make small talk while Annabelle once
again picked up her needlework, and Victoria took Chase into her arms. The
letter from Gene was forgotten. The baby boy shook the rattle that his Uncle
Jarrod had brought home for him one day, laughing and cooing as his blue eyes
followed the motion and his ears detected the musical sound. It was only
Chase's merrily myopic behaviour that kept the atmosphere in the room from
being truly funereal.
Annabelle watched the way Nick kept glancing unhappily at his mother, and the
way he kept working his mouth, as though he wanted to say something, but could
never quite get it out. When Heath and Nick began to raise their voices in
argument over their game, giving vent to their misplaced anger, Annabelle had
intervened, suggesting that she and Heath get Chase up to bed and turn in for
the night.
Heath had looked at her gratefully, tossing his pool cue on the table. He'd
clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder, giving a firm squeeze, trying to
communicate to Nick his understanding of the other man's sense of anger and
loss and frustration, which he too shared. Heath had kissed Victoria's cheek, Annabelle
had reclaimed her son, and they had gone off to bed.
As she had undressed later in their room, Annabelle listened as Heath revealed
to her that two of the hands had quit that day, for the same reason that Al
Langford had refused them the bull. Heath had known about Nick's confrontation
in Stockton earlier, but hadn't shared that with Belle, not wanting to
overwhelm her. He had told her what he hadn't shared with Nick and Victoria
initially though, what Heath had first thought when Dean had said they wouldn't
deal with the Barkleys anymore.
Annabelle had pulled her hairbrush violently through her chestnut hair as she
listened to her husband speak. She couldn't stand the small-minded bigotry of
some people! These were the same kind of people who had made her beloved
Heath's life a hell since he had been just a very small child. She knew that he
still bore the scars of the abhorrent treatment he and his unwed mother had
received in Strawberry. Heath's illegtimacy had haunted him for most of his
life. The prejudice he had grown up with still reared it's ugly head on
occasion, and though Heath now had a respected and beloved place among the
Barkleys, and a growing, devoted family of his own, Annabelle knew that the
cruel, ignorant attitudes of some people could still cause him pain.
What business was it of anyone's who Jarrod Barkley chose to love?! Annabelle
believed as her husband did, that California voters would not accept the
couple, and that angered her enough. But for individuals to lash out this way
towards the entire Barkley family, was just so reprehensible. Annabelle
wondered what Jarrod would have to say about all of this. Assuming, of course,
that they told him.
Victoria seemed bound and determined that no ugliness or negativity was going
to touch Jarrod, as long as she could help it. Annabelle understood that
Victoria had been gravely concerned about her eldest son. It wasn't that long
ago that Jarrod had become very withdrawn. That he had begun to have the
nightmares that would end in strangled screams in the dead of the night, waking
the other members of the household, even when they did not wake Jarrod. His
behaviour had worried everyone, especially Victoria.
Annabelle could understand that after the loss of Jarrod's wife, Victoria would
want to protect him from further hurt. And she understood that Jarrod needed to
be concentrating on his political aspirations as well. But she wasn't so sure
anymore that hiding the truth from Jarrod was either the best way to help or
support him.
Annabelle had tried to give Heath some peace through the physical act of their
love, and finally, drained, he had fallen asleep. She had lain awake for a long
time though that night, wondering just how far things would progress and just
how bad things would get before they came to a head, as they ultimately would
have to.
Now, even though the new day dawned bright, there was only gloom at the
breakfast table. Audra hadn't even joined them this morning. Annabelle had
heard Victoria knocking on the young woman's door last night before she too had
retired, but knew that Audra had not admitted her mother to her room, unwilling
still to share whatever had broken down the bond between Audra and Bobby Olson.
It had been a bond that had seemed to be growing too, from friendship and
youthful attraction to something more. It was a relationship that all of the
Barkley's had encouraged, and Annabelle knew how much Audra carried for Bobby
and he her.
She had observed them at the Hallowe'en dance together, and had thought to
herself then that it wouldn't be too much of a surprise if they were to soon
learn that there would be a spring wedding. Audra had seemed to blossom and
mature in the time that she and Bobby had been courting. That their break-up
was so painfully one-sided, that Bobby's affections could have changed so
suddenly was a mystery to Annabelle.
Silas entered the room then, followed by the Barkley foreman, Duke McCall, who
was removing his hat. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your meal,"
Duke said regretfully. "But the fence is down in the northeast pasture.
Some of the cattle have already wandered through. If we don't get there pronto,
the whole herd is liable ta go off. And the Ransom's have got half their head
free-grazin' in the valley down there. If our herd mixes with theirs, it'll
take days to sort 'em again. And there are still some yearlings that we missed
at branding time, Ransom could claim them as mavericks if he's got a mind
to."
Nick exploded out of his seat midway through Duke's speech. He wheeled on
Heath, slamming his hand down on the table top, causing the dishes and cutlery
to rattle. "I thought you were takin' some men to fix that section of
fence last week!" Nick snarled.
Heath dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, his blue eyes going icy. "I
did, Nick. We replaced every tiny break, and even every suspect section. I
double-checked all the work m'self." He did not like being doubted this
way.
"Well evidently you didn't do such a good job of checking!" Nick
announced bitterly. If they were lucky, they would only waste a day rounding up
the cattle, short-handed as they were. If they were unlucky...it could mean
days lost. This latest was more than Nick could bear.
"Uh, Nick," Duke broke in, embarassed at being witness to this
exchange between the brothers, brothers that were closer than any two men the
foreman had ever known, "the fence was cut in several sections. Someone
done it deliberate."
Shock registered on Nick's face. He felt as though he'd taken a sucker punch to
the gut. He wished that he could turn back the clock and unsay his words to
Heath. He bowed his head in shame that he had ever doubted his brother. His
best friend. A man who had never once given him cause to doubt him. He hadn't
really doubted him though, not in his heart of hearts. He'd just been
frustrated and knocked flat by this latest ominous turn and had lashed out.
"Look, Heath...," Nick began miserably.
Heath threw down his napkin, not meeting Nick's eyes. "We'd better git
goin' then," he said coldly. "Mother, Belle, looks like it could be a
long day. I'll see you later." Heath strode out of the room, with Nick and
Duke on his heels.
Silas stood there uncomfortably, hating that he had had to see or hear any of
this. The tension in the household since last evening had been palpable. It was
a living, breathing thing that had moved into the mansion, and lay coiled in
the corners of the rooms and hovered darkly over the heads of the people who
resided there. "Ma'am, they's a letter here," Silas said, stretching out
his hand, the white of the unmarked envelope contrasting with the dark mahogony
of his skin.
Victoria took it from him, murmuring her thanks, and Silas retreated from the
room. Victoria sat there for several seconds, holding the envelope in her lap.
It was probably an invitation from one of their neighbours to some party or the
other. She gazed into her coffee, thinking about what had happened between Nick
and Heath. Thinking about the fence that someone had maliciously damaged.
Thinking about the breeding bull. Thinking about the upcoming election and
about Jarrod in San Francisco. Annabelle just watched her, at a loss for words
herself.
Finally, Victoria let out a sigh, and stuck a well-manicured nail under the
envelope flap, slitting it across the top. She withdrew the folded sheet from
within, and carefully unfolded it, her eyes scanning the brief message.
Annabelle heard her gasp, and saw the colour drain from Victoria's face. She
thought at first that her mother-in-law was having a heart attack. Annabelle's grandmother
had acted just this same way before she had passed on. "Mother!"
Annabelle called in fright, her own face going pale. "What's wrong!"
Victoria squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, taking deep, calming
breaths. She looked down at the piece of paper in horror and then over at
Annabelle, her pain and confusion evident. "This letter," Victoria
whispered hoarsely. "It's a death threat...against
Jarrod."
As Catherine and Jarrod were making their plans for the day,
sitting in the drawingroom with Cadence who was playing with her homemade doll,
there was a knock on the front door. Jarrod couldn't hide his grin, as Mr. Fong
went to open the door and admit the same porters who had been there the night
before. Jarrod asked them to bring the boxes into the drawing room this time,
rubbing his hands together in anticipation, chuckling at the curious
expressions on Catherine's and Cadence's faces.
"Oh, Jarrod, what have you done?" Catherine asked suspiciously, hands
on her hips, as she surveyed the mountain of packages.
"Happy birthday!" he announced.
Cadence began to jump and twirl around the room. "Yeah! Happy birthday!
Happy birthday!" She stopped, cocking her head to one side and looking at
Catherine, her lips puckering and a frown creasing her brow.
"Who's birthday is it, Momma?"
"Jarrod Barkley!" Catherine said in exasperation. "It's not
my birthday! Nor Cady's!"
He threw his head back and laughed. "Well you know," he teased,
"it's somebody's birthday!" He crouched on the floor next to the
packages, beckoning Cadence to come sit on his knee. "You can help me open
these," he instructed, "and we'll see what we've got here."
Catherine rolled her eyes at him, and shook her head. She watched as Jarrod and
her daughter opened the packages. The first contained a small, gorgeous, deep
purple velvet coat, with a collar of silver fox, that Jarrod helped Cady don.
Catherine bit her lips to hold back the protests that threatened to spill out.
Another box held a purple velvet bonnet, and a silver fox fur muffler. Little
white boots completed the ensemble. Cady's eyes sparkled as she pirouetted
around the room.
"It's getting colder these days," Jarrod said defensively, in
response to the way Catherine was watching him, her arms folded across her
chest. He winked at her and pushed a larger box towards her.
By the time they were done opening everything, Catherine was speechless. There
was a coat for Catherine that matched Cadence's, with a velvet bonnet trimmed
with silver fox, and black, low-heeled boots. There was a tan split riding
skirt and jacket and tan riding boots for Catherine. There was a pair of
impossibly tiny riding boots for Cady, tooled black leather, and a jaunty black
hat, similar to the one Catherine had seen Mrs. Barkley wear.
There were two dresses for Cadence, one a pink cotton, and another dressier
gown of white silk with pantaloons and blue satin trim. And new shoes. For
Catherine there was another dress, plainer than the one she had worn the
previous night, but another quality piece, a soft, dusty rose. There was a
two-piece suit, with a short, button up jacket and a long, slimline skirt, of
indigo cashmere.
There were undergarments, and nightgowns, and shoes and accessories for both
mother and daughter. Catherine sat there on the floor, stunned, too overwhelmed
for words. She had never had so many beautiful, expensive things in her life,
even back in the Red River Settlement, when times had been good and her
father's business had been booming. She looked at Cadence, prancing around in
her new shoes, and then at Jarrod, and the earnest look in his eyes.
"It's too much," Catherine said at last, her voice barely audible.
"Jarrod, it's just too much."
Jarrod moved from his seat on the chesterfield to sit on the floor beside her.
"Please let me do this," he implored softly. "You needed some
new things, didn't you? Both of you?"
"Yes, of course, but this is just so...extravagant..." Catherine
seemed bewildered. Where on earth would she even
wear most of these things?
"If there's anything that you don't like, we can exchange it for something
else. Or if there are things that you need, that I haven't thought of, just let
me know." Jarrod took her hand and kissed it. "I want to do this.
Because I love you, and because you deserve it, and because I can." He
paused. "You know how it makes you feel to give Cadence something, or do
something special for her?" he asked. "How good it makes you feel.
You know how you would rather get her something than anything for
yourself?" Jarrod swallowed hard. "Allow me to know that same
pleasure. Allow me to do something special for the two girls that I adore. Let
me know that same sense of giving to the ones that I love. Believe me, it would
be the best gift you could ever give me."
Catherine thought about the dress she had made for Cadence the first time
Jarrod had taken them to dinner. How something for her daughter was more
important than anything for her. How good it felt to do something nice,
something special for someone else. Jarrod asked so little of her, made so few
demands. He only wanted to share his wealth with them, and use what he had to
bring she and Cady pleasure. And if the gifts were impractical or far too
expensive...perhaps that wasn't really the issue. To refuse them, Catherine
sensed, would be to refuse to allow a part of who Jarrod was into their lives.
"You are an amazing, generous man," Catherine told him, her eyes
shimmering with tears. "So thoughtful and so kind. Thank you so much,
Jarrod, for all of these incredible things. I love you."
Relief passed across his handsome face. "You're welcome. And I love you
too. Both of you."
Catherine's breath caught in her throat. She had known that Jarrod was fond of
her daughter, but it was the first time he had said that he loved Cadence. The
little girl was continuing to strut around the room in her new coat and boots,
too self-absorbed to be aware of the adults or their conversation. 'And
what about all of your ambitions?' Catherine
wanted to ask him. 'How and where do we fit in
your life, Jarrod?' But she was not prepared to
push the issue. Perhaps because she was afraid of what his answer would be.
Once Catherine and Cadence had changed into their new outfits, Jarrod hailed a
cab to take them sightseeing. Jarrod's brownstone was on Russian Hill, in the
northern end of the city. Russian Hill, and it's sister Nob Hill, were two
peaks on the continuous ridge that jutted along the length of the penninsula.
Both were home to some of San Francisco's most established and monied families.
Along with Telegraph Hill, the area encompassed Chinatown and North Beach
residential neighbourhoods.
As they passed up and down and along the steep cobbled streets, they were
treated to glimpses of small verdant parks, clanging cable cars, wonderful
architecture and breathtaking views. The area was a mix of irregular
elevations, a profusion of flowers and shrubs, and people of many different
nationalities. Telegraph Hill looked down on the infamous Barbary Coast. Nob
Hill was where the decadently wealthy had recently begun to build their
extravagant mansions. Neither Catherine nor Cadence were prepared for the
enormity of the structures, and they had difficulty accepting that these were
single-family dwellings. Jarrod admitted, after Catherine had dragged it out of
him, that he had been inside some of these hallowed halls, that he knew and was
known to some of city's elite.
They rode as far as Chinatown, and then disembarked to begin a walking tour.
The little shops were overflowing with Chinese and Japanese wares, and every
one seemed to feature photographs of local scenery for tourists. When they
passed yet another Chinese laundry and Catherine commented on how many there
were, Jarrod remarked that it was no thanks to local lawmakers and police.
He explained to Catherine that not too many years previous, there had been
scores of discriminatory local laws passed, various ordinances that tried to
drive out the Chinese launderers. Originally, the Chinese immigrants setting up
businesses in San Francisco had encountered no opposition, and had worked hard
to provide an essential service, and to earn a living.
Eventually, some white businessmen had begun to notice that such laundry
businesses were also quite lucrative. They arranged to have different
ordinances put in place that tried to regulate the size of the laundries, that
forbid the used of the poles that were traditionally used to carry bundles,
that attempted to change the designations of where such businesses could
locate, and finally they required Chinese American laundries to pay higher
taxes than others.
A series of lawsuits by the incensed Chinese businessmen following the
enactment of these unfair laws, eventually overturned all of them, except the
sidewalk, or 'pole' ordinance. "The most famous of these is the Yick Wo
Laundry case," Jarrod told Catherine. She loved how animated he became
when he talked about the law, and other topics that were important to him.
"The owner, Lee Yick, successfully challenged the validity of the laws
that were trying to be used to drive the Chinese out of the laundry business.
The lawsuit established the principle that a law can be discriminatory, even if
the wording is not - if it is applied in a discriminatory fashion." He
smiled broadly. "It's a fascinating case study!" He coloured
slightly. "I hope I'm not boring you."
"Just the contrary," Catherine assured him, as they strolled along.
They stopped for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. The food was different than
what Catherine and Cadence were used to, but with Jarrod's help they were able
to order dishes that their western palates could appreciate. Outside
afterwards, Jarrod reached for his billfold, and removed half of the bills,
handing them over to Catherine. "I have to go see someone, just for a
short while," Jarrod told her. "You take Cady and go shopping. Buy
whatever you need, or whatever you want, or whatever makes you happy. You can
go for another carriage ride, or perhaps to one of the parks. There are all the
shops along here, or you're not far from Union Square, where you'll find a
variety of other stores."
Catherine accepted the money, tucking it into her purse, murmuring her
gratitude. "Shall we meet you somewhere?" she asked.
"Just go back to the house whenever you're done. I'll meet you there
later, then I thought we could take Cadence to the Palace later for high
tea." Jarrod stooped to kiss Catherine's cheek, then Cady's. As they
started to walk away, he reached out and grabbed Catherine's hand. "Oh,
and one thing," he told her, "you're not to buy anything for
me!" He winked at her, then they went their separate ways.
Catherine knew just what she would spend some of the money on. She had seen the
lovely little glass and stone beads in the windows of several of the Oriental
shops. She took Cadence's hand in hers and hurried back the length of
storefronts to the one that had seemed to have the biggest selection, then she
and Cadence ducked inside.
Jarrod had stopped at the office of Herbert Thorpe, a local businessman, who
had dealings in the shipping industry. Even though Thorpe was a staunch
Democrat, he wasn't adverse to clearing his schedule for a few minutes for
Jarrod Barkley. After all, the man would likely be the Governor of California
in a few months. Besides, he was acquainted with Jarrod in a limited social
capacity, and liked and respected him as a man.
Ten minutes later, Jarrod was writing a cheque to Thorpe, who sat back behind
his desk, his fingers steepled, shaking his head. "You know I had no
intentions of selling, Jarrod, ever. But this offer is three times greater than
what I might reasonably have expected if I ever had put her on the market. And
there are others of course, though I must say I agree with you that that's the
best of the lot." Thorpe took the cheque, then shook Jarrod's hand.
"Just let me know when you want to take ownership, and El
Viento Dorado is yours."
Jarrod couldn't temper the grin that broke out on his features at the thought.
Since he hadn't taken nearly as long at Thorpe's office as he had anticipated,
Jarrod made the mistake of stopping by his law office for a short visit that
had extended into a couple of hours helping Mark Treymore with a problem whose
solution had been elluding him.
"Did you have a nice time last night?" Mark asked casually, as Jarrod
rolled up his sleeves and began making notes on paper. Jarrod looked up at him
warily. "Well, anyone whose anyone in this city knows who you are,"
Mark laughed at his boss's expression. "Especially now with the election
not far off and the nomination even closer. Someone was telling me you were
dining at the Palace last night with a young, Italian woman." Mark winked
at him. "So, did you have a good time?"
Jarrod studied him curiously. "An Italian woman?" he repeated slowly.
Mark shrugged. "Well, James said he thought she might be Italian.
Meditteranean at any rate." He tapped his pen on the desk. "I thought
you were seeing Patricia Vandermeer in Sacramento," Mark remarked.
Jarrod had been working closely with Mark for some time now, and over time the
two men had begun to discuss and exchange the occasional bit of personal
information. Jarrod had indeed mentioned Patricia to Mark, that time that he
had bought the perfume for her. "I...we...we're not seeing one another any
more," Jarrod said, trying to be off-hand. "I'm seeing Catherine
now," he told his assistant. "And yes, we had a wonderful time, thank
you."
Jarrod tried not to let his voice or his features betray just how caught
off-guard he had been, or how he was struggling now with Mark's identification
of Catherine as 'Italian'. For a few shameful moments, Jarrod had been about to
give himself up to subterfuge. But he was not ashamed of either Catherine or
her heritage. "Actually," Jarrod corrected Mark. "Catherine is
Metis."
"Oh yeah?" Mark said, nodding sagely. He didn't want to betray his
ignorance to his boss. "Very good," he commented, then changed the
subject back to the work at hand.
Jarrod continued to stare at Mark thoughtfully. Mark, of course, had no idea
what 'Metis' was.
Jarrod thought for a moment of explaining, and then decided that it didn't
really matter. She was herself. She was Catherine Vaillancourt. She was the
woman he loved. And that was all that really mattered.
When Jarrod returned home, close to five o'clock, Cadence came running to the
door to meet him. His heart soared as she threw herself into his arms and he
picked her up and rained kisses on her face while she giggled.
"Jarrod!" she protested laughingly. His throat tightened. She had
dropped the 'Mr.' all of a sudden, without being prompted, and he was glad.
"Come see what Momma did!" Cady urged, taking his hand and dragging
him upstairs.
Jarrod found Catherine in her room, sitting on the bed, a piece of fabric in
her hands, just snipping off thread from a needle. She looked up with a smile
when Jarrod entered. "Sorry to be late," he apolgized. "What
have you got there?"
Catherine shook the blouse out in front of her. It was white silk. All along
the edge of the collar was an intricate design of multi-coloured beads. "I
bought the shirt," Catherine said, "but I did the beadwork myself.
It's for your mother. What do you think?" She looked up at him
uncertainly. "I made one for Audra and Annabelle, too. I guessed at the
sizes, but since my mother was a dressmaker, I've got a fairly practiced
eye."
Jarrod fingered the blouse. "This is incredible, Catherine," he said
in awe. "Where did you learn how to do this?"
She blushed. "My mother taught me. Most of the Metis women do beadwork.
Many of the men wear cloth, or tanned animal hide trousers with beaded
suspenders. My father used to. Also, shirts and jackets are often brightly
coloured and decorated with beads. Beading is even used on hats."
Catherine looked at her daughter regretfully. "I haven't had any money for
beads for so long, or even seen them anywhere for sale. I always wanted to make
Cadence something special, something beaded, to help remind her of her
history."
"Maybe you can put some beads on my dolly," Cadence suggested.
Catherine shook off her melancholy. "We used to trade for the little glass
beads and silk thread. Beadwork against the backdrop of black or dark blue
fabric was always popular, because it showed the beading so well." She
smiled at Jarrod. "The Metis love colourful, vibrant clothing. Jackets are
often decorated with beads and trimmed with silk ribbon. My people are quite
proud of their reputation for their skill. In fact, the Dakota call us 'The
Flower Beadwork People'."
"This is for your mother," she told him, laying out the white blouse.
"The pattern that repeats around the collar is a grouping of five. To
symbolize her five children, you, Nick, Heath, Audra and Eugene." She
reached for another blouse that covered the pillow. "This turquoise one is
for Audra. The design isn't as intricate, nor is it on the pale green one for
Annabelle. But I think it still turned out pretty. Do you think they will like
them?" Catherine asked, chewing on her bottom lip. "I wanted to do
something to thank them for their kindnesses towards Cadence and I. I know it's
not exactly from me, because your money paid for the garments and the beads,
but..."
Jarrod looked at her in wonder. "They will love them, Catherine," he
interrupted. "Your work is exquisite and I know they will appreciate it.
And it is your heart and soul that went into the beadwork that makes them
special." He reached to squeeze her right shoulder. "And what else
did you buy? Anything for yourself?"
Catherine looked guilty. "I hope you don't mind, but I picked up a few
little toys for the McNeil children. And a tobacco pouch for Mr. McNeil, and a
small mirror for Halley. They've been so good to us too, and so helpful."
"Momma let me help pick the toys," Cadence chimed in. "Since
they're my friends, I know what they like." She grinned and nodded to
herself.
"I think that was very thoughtful," Jarrod told them both. "You
didn't answer me. Did you buy anything for yourself?" he inquired of
Catherine with a raised eyebrow, his head tilted to one side, his blue eyes
shining with wonder. She was such a remarkable, selfless woman. He felt
humbled.
Catherine shook her head. "There's nothing I could possibly need! You've
provided everything we could have thought of and more!" She smiled at him,
as he bent his head to brush his lips across hers. "And did you
have a good afternoon?" she asked.
He nodded. "That I did. I succeeded in what I set out to do. And now, I've
worked up a bit of an appetite again! I'll just change and then we'll tak Cady
to tea. And let her see a rising room." He winked at the child as her
mouth made a small round 'o' of expectation. Her mother and Jarrod had told her
about the rising rooms at breakfast.
As Jarrod went off to his room to change, Catherine gathered her daughter to
her for a hug. How nice it felt to be here with Jarrod this way. Sharing the
same roof. Asking about his day. Sharing hers in return. Readying to go out
together, the three of them. It felt so domestic.
Almost as though they were a...family. Catherine thought happily that she could
get used to feeling this way. And then wondered sadly how long it could
possibly last.
Patrick Vandermeer stood in his study, with his hands
clasped behind his back, looking through the multi-paned windows out at the
rose garden beyond. The original purpose of this garden's location had been so
that if Patrick were feeling the stresses and pressures of work, he could gaze
out at the profusion of reds and pinks and yellows. Theoretically this would
allow his mind and body to relax as he transitioned from one world, his
professional one, to his personal life with his family.
It usually worked, more often than not. But it certainly wasn't working today.
Instead of being filled with a sense of tranquillity, all Patrick wanted to do
was take the ancient Samurai sword that was hanging over the hearth and stomp
outside where he could hack and slash at the lovely flora, giving vent to some
of the rage that had been building in him since that morning.
Last night he had attended the small, private dinner party at the Bostwick
residence. Wyatt had invited those few remaining Republicans whose political
persuasions should be in line with their own, but who had not yet emphatically
given their support for Jarrod Barkley in the upcoming convention. The party's
other wing had already put forth Clayton Knowles to oppose Jarrod. Patrick
couldn't honestly see how anyone could throw his hat into the ring with
Knowles, especially with Governor White giving such vocal support of Jarrod.
But some men were.
The Governor had meant to attend the dinner, but at the last minute his
increasingly failing heath had dashed such intentions. And so, Patrick, Wyatt,
Henry and the others had had to do Jarrod's electioneering for him. It had gone
suprisingly well, all things considered. Of course, with Jarrod there,
excercising his powers of charm and persuasion, it might have gone even better.
Patrick Vandermeer had sent a terse wire to Stockton, urging...almost
demanding...that Jarrod get back to Sacramento without delay. A couple of days
prior to that Patrick had received the short telegraph informing him that
Jarrod was going to San Francisco for a few days and would return to Sacramento
after that.
Patrick had been somewhat irritated that Jarrod was taking it upon himself to
do some electioneering in the other city when they did not have a firm plan for
San Francisco yet, but he hadn't been too aggravated. Jarrod was smart, and
Jarrod knew the city and it's inhabitants well, and Patrick had been confident
that Jarrod would make good use of his time there. But after that, the attorney
had better get himself to Sacramento and start showing people that he was
serious about this election.
Naturally, Sam White's support was an enormous coup, and incredibly fortuitous,
and would go far in ensuring Jarrod's success. But it wasn't a guarantee. There
were never any guarantees until that final ballot was counted, and if Jarrod,
new to politics, wasn't yet cognizant of that fact, and was taking this
upcoming convention too lightly, it was up to Patrick and his associates to
wake Jarrod up.
Patrick's mood upon returning home late last night had been positive overall.
The house had been silent, both Patricia and Mary asleep, and he had enjoyed a
nightcap before retiring to bed. Neither of his young daughters had accompanied
him to the dinner. Patricia usually served as his escort at such functions,
taking the place that would have been filled by her late mother, but she had
begged off last evening with a headache and had retired early to her rooms.
Mary had been invited to the theatre by one of her ever changing assortment of
beaux.
Whereas Patricia was the more beautiful of the two, she was shy and more
reserved with men. Mary was quite outgoing and quite popular, but also very
fickle. Patrick reasoned that she was still young, there would be lots of time
for Mary to settle down. And anyways, if his intuition was correct, the family
would be busy before long with the planning of a wedding the likes of which
Sacramento...no, California...had never seen! Or so Patrick had believed.
After her visit to the Barkleys in Stockton, Patrick had expected his daughter
to return and announce her engagement. He was somewhat disgruntled, being
old-fashioned, that Jarrod hadn't formally stated his intentions and asked for
Patrick's blessing, but he consoled himself that times were changing, young
people were becoming more independent, and anyways, he was totally supporting
of such an union.
Then Patricia had returned, no ring on her delicate finger. She seemed subdued,
reserved, and he had learned that for now she and Jarrod had put their
relationship on hold. The fatherly side of him had been angered, but the
business side of him had thought that perhaps Jarrod had done the right thing,
waiting to make the relationship permanent until after the election.
While Patricia would certainly be an asset and make a fine politician's wife,
Patrick thought that perhaps, in addition to still mourning his lost first
wife, Jarrod might be considering that a young widower made for a sympathetic
candidate. Jarrod was shrewd that way, Patrick knew, and he couldn't fault the
man for his thinking.
Then this morning Patrick had had a visit from Jacob Glickman, his right hand
man in charge of his business dealings in San Francisco. Jacob had stopped by
the previous evening, he'd explained, when his train had gotten in, but Patrick
had already left for his dinner. He apologized for coming by so early, but
hinted that it was imperative he speak with Patrick as soon as possible. Patricia
had not come down for breakfast, and Patrick had excused himself from the table
where Mary had joined him, and guided Jacob Glickman to the study.
There Glickman had shared with Patrick what he had witnessed, as he had stood
on the platform, waiting for the train to Sacramento to pull into the San
Francisco station. The Sacramento-bound train was three hours late, there had
been a problem along the tracks, and so Jacob had been walking about,
stretching his legs, when the west-bound from Stockton had pulled in. He had
not been overly surprised to see the Barkley private railcar attached to the
long line of passenger cars. The Barkley matriarch, Victoria, and her exquisite
young daughter, Audra, frequently came to the city to visit friends and to shop.
He had, however, been quite surprised to see Jarrod Barkley alight from the
train. If Patrick had told him that Barkley was expected, he would have been
happy to set up some appointments and to make arrangements for Jarrod to see
the right people. Dinners in his honour could have been planned. Jacob had been
a bit disgruntled that Patrick had not let him in on the fact that Jarrod
Barkley was coming to San Francisco, no matter how well-acquainted Jarrod was
with the city and it's residents. It had seemed a terrible slight to Jacob.
Then he had watched the other two passengers disembark, and he had been
shocked. The first was a small child, a little girl, obviously of mixed blood,
who Barkley picked up into his arms and held close. Then he had extended his
hand to a tall, young woman, whose tanned skin and strong features proclaimed
her native heritage. She was dressed simply in a pale purple calico gown, and
was obviously a person of simple means. The trio had been the only passengers
on the Barkley car. Jacob Glickman had watched them, standing together as a
porter tended to the luggage and then arranged for a carriage.
There was something in the familiar way that Jarrod Barkley's arm circled the
woman's waist, and the way the child snuggled into his hold that sent up
warning flags. When Jacob saw the woman bend towards Barkley, kissing the
corner of his mouth briefly, and had seen the way that Jarrod looked at the
woman, he had been certain that there was a relationship between the two. His
eyes had followed their progress to the carriage, and then the three had
climbed inside and headed off.
Patrick had stared at Jacob Glickman in confusion as he relayed what he had
witnessed. He couldn't understand this at all. Surely, Jacob must be mistaken
about what he had perceived to be an intimate relationship between Jarrod and
this...this Indian woman.
For one thing, Jarrod was in love with his daughter Patricia. Patrick was
certain of that. For another, even if, as crazy as it sounded, Jarrod had a
mistress...an Indian
mistress...there was no way in hell he would take her to San Francisco and
boldly parade her around the city. Unless Jarrod Barkley had taken a total
leave of his senses.
Glickman must have misinterpreted things. More likely, the woman was a client.
Or perhaps the wife or relative of Barkley's friend, that Modoc lawyer, Tom
Lightfoot. Yes, surely that must be it. She was a friend of the family and
Jarrod had accompanied she and her child to San Francisco. Anything more was
just too ridiculous and terrible to contemplate. Patrick had thanked Jacob for
bringing him this bit of information, and had vowed that he would speak
directly to Jarrod about the matter at their next meeting, but that he was
confident there was a logical explanation for things.
In the meantime, Patrick thought bitterly, God only knew what people in San
Francisco were thinking, or what sorts of stories were circulating. As soon as
he and Jacob had finished their business in Sacramento, he would have to send
the other man back to San Francisco pronto to delve into how this was impacting
on their plans, and to do any necessary damage control.
Damn Jarrod and his 'all men are created equal'
attitude! As innocent as this situation might be, there were far-reaching
ramifications. All it took was a tiny ember to fan the flames of gossip,
however lacking in foundation, and there wouldn't be enough firefighters in the
state of California to extinguish the conflagration if people began to believe
that Jarrod Barkley was in any way involved with an Indian woman.
An Indian woman.
Patrick shuddered. God forbid! He couldn't imagine any self-respecting white
man stooping that low, least of all Jarrod Barkley, especially when he was
already courting the most wonderful young woman in the state, Patrick's pride
and joy, his lovely Patricia. Patrick wouldn't have been surprised merely to
learn that Jarrod had a mistress. A man had certain needs that he needed to
have met from time to time. Patrick had made sure that both of his daughters
understood this, so that when they were married, they would not be hurt to
learn their husbands had strayed. Some women were for one thing, other women
were for marrying and bearing children. Patrick knew that some men kept
mistresses of other races, and he had always found the thought repugnant. But
no man he had ever known had taken a savage to his bed.
Patrick's morning had gone from bad to worse, with the arrival of a messenger,
not long after Jacob Glickman's departure. Patrick had been gathering some
papers in his study, when one of the maids had brought him a letter that had
just been delivered. Patrick hadn't recognized the writing on the outer
envelope. Reaching for his letter opener, he had slit the paper, extracting the
single piece of paper within. The blood had drained from his face as he had
read the contents in disbelief. The letter was signed simply, 'a
friend'. A friend indeed! No friend would put such
vile, vicious lies to paper!
Patrick had stormed from the study and marched up the stairs to Patricia's
room, eager to have her prove him wrong. He had knocked sharply on the door,
several times, calling her name, before a groggy voice had called to him to
come in. Patricia had been sitting up in bed, the drapes still closed.
"Yes, Father?" she asked in confusion, wondering what had been so
important that he would interrupt her sleep.
"I just received this," Patrick Vandermeer said, thrusting the letter
towards his oldest daughter. He lit the lamp beside her bed. "Tell me
there's nothing to it, and we'll never speak of it again!"
Patricia took the sheet of paper and began to read. Patrick watched the colour
rise in her cheeks as she read the words that someone had inscribed there. Her
embarassment didn't necessarily evidence her guilt, Patrick knew. She might
simply be mortified that anyone would make such allegations. But when she set
the paper aside on the quilt, and refused to meet his eyes, Patrick knew with
dawning horror that the words were true.
"Patricia?" he asked, his words strangled. "Tell me this isn't
true! Tell me that you haven't been lying to me, and sneaking around! Tell me
that you haven't been seeing that man!
No child of my flesh could possibly do this to me!"
Patricia looked up at her father, crimson spots on her high cheeks, her green
eyes shimmering with tears. "Do this to you?!"
she repeated, wounded. "I am a grown woman able to make my own choices as
to who I spend my time with! Perhaps you should care enough about me to ask why!
To find out why I am no longer sitting here waiting for my knight in shining
armour, your precious Jarrod Barkley, to come and get me!" The raw pain on
her lovely features tugged at Patrick's heart. "You see, Jarrod doesn't
want me any more," she cried out. "He's decided that nothing that I
have to offer him could possibly compete with the charms of an Indian
washerwoman!"
And with that statement, Patricia made both of her father's worst fears come
true. Patricia knew about this woman that Jarrod had taken to San Francisco. It
was true, and Glickman's perceptions had been spot on. The woman was Jarrod's
lover, as unpalatable as the thought might be. Somehow, Patricia knew about the
other woman, and in her pain and humiliation she had turned to Jarrod's rival,
the despicable Clayton Knowles. How on earth had this happened under his very
nose?
"You are not to see Clayton Knowles again!" Patrick thundered.
"Do you hear me?!" In twenty-four years, he had never raised his
voice to either of his daughters before. "Do you have any idea how
ridiculous this makes me look?! My own daughter escorting my political rival to
a political function supporting his efforts to undermine all of mine! You have
likely done irreparable damage to my reputation and made me the laughing stock
of Sacramento! Oh Patricia, how could you do
such a thing?!" He ran his hands through his greying hair, shaking his
head in bewilderment, his disappointment pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"What about what Jarrod has done?!" Patricia countered. "Surely
you aren't still intending to support him! Not after the way he has led me on
and made a mockery of my feelings for him! Not knowing that he's...that he's
been intimate with a dirty savage! Surely you will no longer help him to get
the Governor's Mansion!" Her voice grew shrill.
Patrick closed his eyes, trying to control his rampaging emotions.
"Patricia, we will deal with Jarrod Barkley later for what he has done to
you. But right now, I have to separate my personal feelings from my business
feelings. I am committed to Jarrod's political success, which will in the short
and long terms benefit me, and you and Mary as well. It may or may not be too
late for me to withdraw that support now. And what happens between you two
personally really has nothing to do with how I deal with the man politcally,"
he tried to explain.
"You would still continue to support him...after what I just told
you?" Patricia asked hoarsely. Her eyes narrowed. "You aren't even
surprised about Jarrod's heathen, are you, Father?" she asked. "You
already know about his mistress. That he's been treating that savage
better than he's been treating me!
You already knew!" she accused him.
Patrick spread his hands. "I just found out, actually. I wasn't even sure,
but obviously you know more about this than I do, and now you've confirmed
rumours that I'd heard." He sighed. "I can understand your anger at
Jarrod, and the fact that you might never wish to see him again," Patrick
continued. "But now I have to do my best to salvage this mess. And I
cannot have you being seen around Sacramento with Clayton Knowles! I will
not have it! You're making a fool of me, and of
yourself as well. Knowles only interest in you is because of Jarrod, surely you
know that. You are to break off all contact with him, immediately! Do I make
myself clear?!"
"So, the only reason Clay might want to be with me is because of Jarrod?
To spite Jarrod?" Patricia asked, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Am
I really so horrid, Father, that you think that just because Jarrod has tossed
me aside, no other man could possibly want me? Do I possess no charms of my
own, offer nothing worthwhile, that another man would look my way?" She
sniffled.
Her father had been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn't even
noticed when she had begun to go out again. Hadn't even cared enough to inquire
where she was going or who she was spending her time with. "Clay cares for
me, he's good to me, and if I want to see him....I
will!"
Patrick's heart seemed to stop in his chest. Neither of his daughters had ever
defied him before. He knew that he had to deal with the pain Patricia was
feeling, and part of him ached for her more than he could ever possibly
communicate...that paternal, protective side...but the other part of him who
was a businessman and a realist was in control right now. For Patricia to
continue to see Clayton Knowles would be a disaster. Not just in terms of this
election, but because it would make Patrick look weak. If he could not control
his own house, how could he possibly be effective in controlling his businesses,
or the political direction of the state?
"I forbid you
to have any further contact with Clayton Knowles! If you leave this house to go
see that man, I don't want you coming back," Patrick said coldly. He hated
to resort to threats, but this would be better for all of them in the long run.
Patricia was hurt, her love for Jarrod unrequited, and she was rebounding into
that snake Knowles arms. Patrick had no doubt that the only reason Knowles was
pursuing his daughter was to humiliate him and to stick a thorn in Jarrod's
side. "Do you understand me, Patricia?"
Patricia looked up at her father, her lips trembling as she replied. "I
understand you perfectly, Father," she said, her voice so devoid of
emotion that it tore at Patrick's heart.
Reluctantly, Patrick had gone to the office. He had sent word to the other
members of the group to meet him at the Carlton Club at ten o'clock that night.
He had come home for dinner, ready to make concilliatory overtures towards his
oldest daughter, and to approach her this time only as a father and not in any
other capacity. He would hold her in his arms, and let her cry, and sympathize
with her, and try to explain why he had seemed so harsh that morning. Perhaps,
if she knew how far reaching the ramifcations of both hers and Jarrod's
ill-conceived behaviours were, she would understand his difficult position.
But Patricia had not been home. The doorman had informed Patrick that Miss
Vandermeer had left the house midmorning, carrying a valise, and had not
returned since. Patrick had been angered at her theatrics, knowing he would
just have to wait her out until she came to her senses and returned home. When
she still had not come back by dinner, he had sent one of the servants to go
check the premier hotels in the city and see if she was registered at any of
them.
When she was found, Patrick himself would bring her home, dragging her kicking
and screaming through the streets if necessary. He was not in the mood for any
of these games, so out of character for his level-headed eldest daughter. He
wondered if perhaps Patricia had gone to stay with one of her friends, then
decided that it wasn't likely. In her current mood, she would undoubtedly want
to be alone. Now he stood staring out at the back garden, waiting impatiently
for word of Patricia, holding onto his anger. Because the anger would help keep
his fears at bay.
* * * * * * * *
Clayton Knowles covered the sleeping woman with a blanket.
Patricia Vandermeer had fallen asleep on the chesterfield in his library, so
overwrought that at last, emotionally drained, she had laid her head on a
cushion and drifted off.
She had come to his office midmorning. He had been in a meeting, and when he
had returned to his office, his secretary had alerted him to the fact that Miss
Patricia Vandermeer was waiting for him. The secretary hadn't been able to keep
the curiosity from his face, peering into the room as Knowles had shut the door
on him abruptly.
Patricia had been sitting there in a straight-backed chair, her head bowed, her
hands folded in her lap. A valise was on the floor beside her. She looked up
when Clay entered, and he had been shocked to see her red-rimmed, swollen eyes
and the salty tracks down her lovely face. He had crossed the room in an
instant to kneel beside her, knowing at once what must have happened.
Patrick Vanadermeer must have been alerted to the fact that Patricia and Clay
had been spending time together. He must have confronted his daughter, and
there had probably been a terrible row. He would have thought that she was here
to break things off with him, except for the presence of the valise. Perhaps
Vandermeer was sending her away for a time. Or had Vandermeer been so outraged
that he had thrown her out of the house? Hard to imagine, knowing how much the
older man doted on both of his daughters.
Normally, a woman in tears affected Clay in one of two ways. He was either
irritated and stoically unmoved by any such emotional displays, or, under
controlled circumstances, he was aroused by her obvious upset. But when he saw
the pain on Patricia's beautiful countenance, Clay Knowles felt neither of
those things. He felt something that he could not at first identify, so foreign
was the sensation. He felt...compassion. It actually bothered him to see the
sadness that clouded her remarkable emerald eyes. He was confused intially by
this startling self-awareness.
He had taken her hand, brought it to his lips, and asked her to tell him what
was wrong. When she had dissolved into tears, his arms had reached for her,
bringing her head to his chest. Normally a particular, fastidious man, he had
not even minded the way her sobs had dampened his starched white shirt.
Uninitiated in the art of consolation, he had simply held her, stroking her
dark hair.
Clay hadn't known what to make of the way she was making him feel. He felt
oddly protective of her. There was a tightness in his throat brought on by the
heaving of her shoulders and the trembling of her petite body pressed against
his. Eventually, through her tears, she had told him what had taken place that
morning at the Vandermeer mansion. That her father had learned of their new
found relationship and had forbidden her to see Knowles. Clay might have
thought that that would be the end of things, that Patricia would accede to her
father's wishes. That she had gathered up a few of her belongings, and come to
him this way, defying her father, left him both confused and elated.
He had dried her tears with his handkerchief, then waited while she freshened
up. He had told his secretary that he was leaving the office, and wouldn't be
in for the remainder of the day. All appointments and meetings were to be
rescheduled. Then he had taken Patricia out to lunch, before finally bringing
her back to his home, not knowing what else to do with her. She had been
adamant about not returning to her own home. So, he had spent the afternoon
with her, playing chess, talking in turn about matters of no importance and
then when she would bring it up, about her father's ultimatum. Eventually, she
had fallen asleep.
Clay Knowles looked down at her slumbering form now. She could not possibly
stay the night here. He was an unmarried man, she a single woman, and it would
ruin her reputation. He had thought, momentarily that if he allowed her to
spend the night, she would then have no choice but to agree to be his bride. No
other self-respecting man would ever touch her again if word got out that she
had stayed at a man's home overnight. Even if nothing were to happen between
them, in any physical way. She would either have to marry him, or die an old
maid, her name tarnished forever.
But he didn't want her to marry him because she had
to. He wanted her to marry him because she wanted
to. It wasn't enough any more to simply possess her. He wanted her to be with
him of her own volition, of her free-will, because she loved him. Clay didn't
really understand all that he was feeling towards her. He just knew that
somewhere along the way, her happiness had become important to him. Her feelings
had begun to matter. He had never felt this way about a woman before. About
anyone, actually. This consideration for another person was pretty much alien
to him. He wasn't quite sure what to make of these strange, new emotions.
He would let her sleep for a bit, and then he would arrange for her to stay the
night at a hotel. In the morning, if she agreed, he would lease a townhouse for
her. Clay bent his hand towards her, the backs of his fingers gently stroking
her aristocratic cheekbones. He brought his fingers to his lips, pressed a kiss
on them, then touched his fingers to her lips. Coloured flooded his face at the
gentle gesture. Patricia wasn't even awake, there was nothing to be gained from
such an action. What the hell was happening to
him?
Chapter 54
It had been well after dark when Nick, Heath and the men had
returned from the north range. The ride home had been silent, each cowboy
preoccupied with his own thoughts. Every man had worked incredibly hard...there
would be a bonus in the next pay...and they had at last managed to separate the
Barkley cattle from those belonging to Ransom, just before the sun had begun to
set. They had lit lanterns and begun the repair work on the fence, tired
muscles protesting against the additional tasks required of them. Finally, new
wire had been strung, and the men had headed home.
Nick and Heath had been too busy, their attention needed elsewhere, to say more
than a bare minimum of words to one another as they organized the hands and
rounded up the strays. Nick had debated leaving a man to guard the newly
installed barbed wire, but Heath had commented that if someone was going to
strike at the Barkley ranch again, they would likely anticipate a guard and
chose a new area to target. All available hands had been needed for the day's
work, and they were all too tired to ride fences through the night. They
couldn't possibly put a guard everywhere. They would have to hope that this
mischief would be the end of it. Both knew, though they didn't voice their
thoughts, that that was unlikely.
Nick had thanked the men for their hard work, and Heath had added his
appreciation, then they had watched the exhausted cowboys tend to their mounts
before dragging themselves wearily to their bunks. Rounding up stray cattle and
fixing broken fence was one of their least favourite jobs as it was. Knowing
that someone had deliberately downed the fence and spooked the cattle, making
their efforts necessary, was dispiriting. The abdication of Millar and Forbes
the day before had further dampened everyone's spirits.
Nick stabled Orion, then strode over to where Heath was currying Charger. Nick
watched his brother work, the muscles beneath his blue shirt rippling as he
made circular motions through the horse's red hide as he moved the brush over
Charger's flanks. Nick had been internally berating himself all day for the
stupid way he had flared up at his brother that morning. "Hey Heath,"
Nick began, "nice work out there today."
"Uh huh," Heath said quietly, continuing with his task, not looking
at his older brother.
"Look, I really am sorry," Nick said contritely. "I didn't even
mean it, Heath. I was just so damned frustrated..."
"Yeah, I know, Nick," Heath turned then, tiredly giving a lopsided
grin. "It don't matter. I know ya didn't mean anythin' by it. I'm not even
thinkin' on it anymore."
Nick nodded. "How bad do you think it's gonna get?" Nick asked
seriously.
Heath ceased currying the sorrel and tipped his hat back on his head. Heath
knew that Nick was not simply refering to the fence, or future attacks on the
ranch, but to the far-reaching ramifications of Jarrod's and Catherine's
relationship on all of them. "I don't rightly know, Nick. Guess we'll just
have to wait an' see."
They didn't have to wait too long for the latest development. Victoria was
waiting for her sons in the billiards room. Annabelle was waiting with her.
Audra had gotten up later in the morning, had shared lunch and dinner with the
other women, had played with her newphew for a bit, and then had retired early
again, claiming that she had a headache. She had taken Blossom with her to her
room, as well as a cup of chamomile tea. She hadn't been crying any more, but
she had certainly been unhappy, despite her attempts at normalacy. And she
hadn't disclosed any of the details about what had happened between she and
Bobby Olson.
Victoria shared the letter with Nick and Heath. Their eyes scanned the messy
scrawl. 'No injun lover will be govenor of my
state. Give up the squaw and give up politiking. Or die.'
They noted the misspellings. "Did Silas see who left this?" Nick
wanted to know. Victoria told them that he hadn't.
"I'll go ask the men if anyone saw anythin' this mornin'," Heath
volunteered, striding purposefully from the room.
Victoria had cautioned them that Audra was not as yet aware of the threat
against Jarrod's life and that they were not to worry her at this stage.
"I was terrified at first," Victoria told Nick. "But on further
reflection, I'm sure it's just an empty threat. A coward's threat, set down on
paper and not even signed."
Nick shrugged. "Could be. But I guess I'd better go to San Francisco
tomorrow. Let Jarrod know what's up and keep an eye on him."
Victoria was warmed by Nick's concern for his brother. Even with things going
wrong here at the ranch and his prescence badly needed, Nick was ready to leave
at a moment's notice if there was a chance his brother's safety could be at
stake. "The letter came from someone local," Victoria reasoned.
"I don't think whoever it is poses a threat to Jarrod as long as he's
away. As soon as he comes back, we'll show him the letter and then decide what
steps, if any, we should take."
Nick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. Mother was so
determined to let Jarrod live out whatever fantasy he had constructed in his
own mind, was so determined to keep the ugly truths and harsh realities from
him, that she might possibly put him in danger, rather than risk forcing him to
wake up from his impossible dream.
Heath returned then. None of the men had noticed anyone around the grounds
either last night or this morning. Nick filled him in on his conversation with
Victoria. Heath listened wordlessly til his brother was done. "You sure
'bout this, Mother?" Heath asked her quietly. When she nodded
emphatically, Heath turned from her to Annabelle to Nick. "We all still in
agreement that keepin' things from Jarrod is the best way to deal with whatever
we're gonna have ta deal with here?"
"Well, I'm not
so sure!" Nick blurted then. "We're in this mess because of Jarrod,
and we need him to help us deal with it! And for his own safety, he needs to
know what he's gotten himself into! And to be aware of what his actions and
decisions are costing not only him, but this whole family!"
"Any mess we are in, and I think that's overstating things, Nicholas, is
not of Jarrod's making," Victoria said icily. "Any troubles we are
having are the result of ignorant, malicious people who are acting of their own
accord! No one is going to dictate how we handle our private affairs! No
one!" Her dark eyes blazed.
"I don't mean that it's Jarrod's fault or anything," Nick said
gruffly. "Just that, it is directly related to personal decisions he's
been making. I'll fight to the death to back him, if I'm sure of what he wants.
But the problem is, since we haven't been talking to him
about any of this, and he hasn't been talking to us...I
don't really know what
Jarrod wants! Do you
know, Mother? Really know? Do you honestly think that Jarrod even knows, with
the way he's been acting, flitting around with his head in the clouds?"
Nick didn't mean to seem harsh, but he felt that his mother was being as
unrealistic as his older brother. Almost.
"Nick's got a point, Mother," Heath added softly.
Victoria looked uncertain. Nick's voice became gentle. "Jarrod can't have
both, Mother. You know that. We all know that. Seems like the only one who
doesn't know that, is Jarrod. So what is it he really wants? We don't have a
clue, do we? Does he want Catherine in his life? Permanently? Has he said
anything about being in love with her, or about marriage or anything like that?
Because if he has, and if that's what he really wants, then I'll be right there
to support him. But if what he wants is to be Governor...to fulfill that
lifelong dream and ambition...then I'll do whatever is in my power to make that
come true for him.
"Surely Jarrod must realize that he can't have Catherine and the Mansion,
both. But he hasn't given up his political ambitions, has he? That, to me,
speaks volumes!" Nick ran his hand over the scratch on his right cheek,
unaware that he was doing so. "And if he doesn't snap back to earth soon,
he's going to lose all hopes of any political future. You know that, don't
you?" Nick asked his diminutive mother.
Victoria's dark eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "I haven't seen Jarrod
this happy, this free, in years," Victoria said miserably. "How can
we take that light out of his eyes?"
"I have to agree with Nick, Mother," Heath said reluctantly. "If
we don't step in here, Jarrod's gonna end up with nothin' at all. I think we
owe it to 'im to be honest." His blue eyes darted over to Annabelle who
was sitting on the settee watching the exchange. She nodded slightly, lending
her support to her husband.
"Jarrod's gonna have to make a choice at some point," Nick persisted.
"And as family it's our job to see that he makes an informed one. That he
makes it with all the information we have available. He needs to know what the
reaction to him and Catherine as a couple is gonna be, if he's too blind to see
it for himself. He needs to know how that's gonna impact on everyone. As he's
so fond of telling me, 'no man is an island'."
Victoria gave a start. She had thought that very same thing herself not that
long ago. Annabelle spoke sadly. "It's so terribly unfair. I don't know
why people can't just mind their own business."
"Lots of things aren't fair," Nick allowed. "So, what are we
going to do? Am I going to San Francisco to bring him back and to let him know
to watch his front, while I take his back?" He raised a dark brow.
Victoria hesitated. "Let him have San Francisco," she said finally.
"Let them have this time. And when they return, I'll talk to Jarrod. I
promise." She sighed defeatedly. She wondered if she was doing the right
thing, by not allowing Nick to go. By not sending a wire that would shatter
Jarrod's insular world. She believed though that Jarrod needed
the time there. That he needed to be able to make his own decision about his
future, without intervention by anyone else. That, she felt, was the only way
he would be able to live with whatever choice he finally made. There was a
chance, however minute, that someone might attempt to harm her oldest son while
he was in San Francisco. But she didn't honestly believe he was in danger in
the city.
Nick scowled. "Well, just for record, I think that's a mistake," he
insisted.
Heath considered everything that had been said. "I'll agree to wait, but
just 'til Jarrod gets back from San Francisco," Heath allowed.
Three sets of eyes turned to Annabelle. In her mind, she sided with Nick, but
in her heart she could not oppose her husband. "As long as we agree to
tell him everything then."
Nick groaned aloud in disbelief. "Fine," he said to them, his face
impassive. "Have it your way."
* * * * * * * *
Cadence had been thrilled with the Palace Hotel. She had sat
on her chair like a little lady, daintily eating the finger sandwiches, and
sipping her tea. Afterwards they had taken her for a ride on the hydraulic
elevators and shown her the view from the Crystal Roof Garden. Cady had enjoyed
everything, but her favourite part had been the rising rooms. Indulgently,
Jarrod had allowed them to ride up and down, again and again, until finally
encouraging Cady to disembark before they all got motion sickness.
Once back at home, they had left Cadence in the care of the capable Miss Price,
suggesting a trip to the park and then bed for Cadence. Jarrod wanted to take
Catherine on another tour. There was something that he had wanted her to see,
that he felt she had to see to believe, out on Nob Hill. Intrigued, she had
boarded another carriage with him. They had ridden for a while, and then they
had gotten off to take a stroll and enjoy the crisp early evening air.
Catherine was grateful for the lined, velvet coat and how warm it kept her.
"Before I show you something," Jarrod said conversationally, "I
want to give you a bit of background. Charles Crocker is the name of one of San
Francisco's wealthiest men. He's a railroad magnate, and together with Mark
Hopkins, Collin Huntington and Leland Stanford, is part of what people refer to
as the 'Big Four'.
"In the 60s, the Big Four began construction of the Central Pacific
railroad. The goal was to cross the rugged Sierra Nevada mountains, and to meet
with the Union Pacific, headed west from Nebraska. Crocker managed the actual
construction of the railroad. He overcame the shortages of both manpower and
money by hiring Chinese immigrants to do much of the back-breaking, dangerous
work." Jarrod's jaw tightened. "He drove the labourers to exhaustion
and was not at all hindered by the deaths of so many. He considered them cheap,
easily replaceable resources." Jarrod's blue eyes flashed.
"They finally finished laying the last stretch of track, seven years ahead
of schedule. A phenomenal and otherwise laudible feat, had it not been for the
costs in human lives and the cruelty it had entailed. Crocker became the
president of the Southern Pacific Railroad which then helped connect San
Francisco to Portland. He is considered a Midas Man, by many in this town.
"Now that we have cable car access, as you have already seen many tycoons
are building mansions here on Nob Hill." Catherine nodded. Palaces, might
be a more apt description, she thought. "The Big Four have always been
highly competitive, trying to outdo one another. Crocker won't be satisfied
with simply having the biggest home. It has be on a scale never before
attempted."
Jarrod stopped at the corner of James and Taylor streets. "All along here,
this entire block that we've walked, this property all belongs to Charles
Crocker. Bit by bit, he has acquired all of the land here bound by these two
streets. But one property owner has refused to sell."
Jarrod took Catherine's hand and led her around the corner. They walked down
Taylor Street, until they came to corner of Sacramento. Catherine gaped,
staring at Jarrod. What in the world was she seeing? Jarrod took her closer to
the imposing wooden structure, then beyond it. A modest house was contained
within, bordered on three sides by an enormous wooden wall, thirty feet tall.
Catherine began to understand.
Jarrod watched her dawning comprehension. "They call it the 'Spite
Fence'," Jarrod said with a sigh. "Crocker owns every bit of property
on this block, except for this one lot. It's owned by Nicholas Yung, a German
undertaker. Yung has turned down every offer Crocker has made. He worked hard
to be able to build his home here, and modest though it might seem by Crocker's
standards, he's proud of it.
"It's been sticking in Crocker's craw that he can't have this last bit of
real estate here. He's eager to knock down everything on the block, and build
himself his palace. But Yung won't budge. So Charles Crocker has erected his
'Spite Fence' to block Yung's view and destroy any value his property might
hold." Catherine heard the anger and disgust in Jarrod's voice. "The
wall is so big, they've had to erect braces to hold it up. Ugly isn't it?"
Catherine nodded. "Is there anything Mr. Yung can do? Any legal recourse
at all?"
Jarrod shook his head sadly. "Nicholas Yung has been to see me about this
situation. I've looked for precedents or other case law, poured over books and
papers, but it would appear that legally, as long the fences are on Crocker's
side of the property line, there's nothing Nicholas can do about the fence.
Barring a new bylaw that limits the height or erection of such fences, of
course. But with all of the councilmen firmly in Crocker's pocket, that's never
going to happen. There will be no new law to help Nick Yung."
"It's all so very sad," Catherine spoke wistfully. "I feel so
sorry for him."
"I know," Jarrod agreed. "I wish there was something that I
could do to help him. I believe it's only a matter of time before Nicholas
sells though."
"I was thinking of Charles Crocker," Catherine said then, to Jarrod's
surprise. "It's him that I feel sorry for. For people like that, it's
never enough. Life is a never-ending acquisition of material wealth. They can
never truly be happy until they have everything, and they can never have
everything of course. They can never take joy from what they have been blessed with.
Their whole sense of self is so wrapped up in what they have,
not who they are.
The bigger their bank accounts grow, it seems, the smaller their souls get.
They never realize that in the ways that truly matter, they are the ones who
are poor." She paused to reflect. "I
live to hail the season, by gifted ones foretold, When man shall live by
reason, and not alone by gold."
There was a lump in Jarrod's throat as he looked at Catherine's profile as she
observed the fence. 'What,'
he asked himself in awe, 'have I ever done to
deserve such a treasure?'
* * * * * * * *
(Charles Crocker was a real historical figure, and he did
indeed erect his 'Spite Fence' in the late 1870s. The timing of the fence and
the year of this story might be fudged a bit, so bear with me, but I wanted to
include this bit of history for Jarrod and Catherine.)