In The Face Of Death (14 page)

“Please, Missus Kent,” Madelaine said, her manner less conciliating than before, “do not think that you must make arrangements for me. I am capable of caring for myself; I value your interest as I ought, but I must ask that you do not pursue the matter.”

Fanny dabbed a tear from her fine eyes with a lace handkerchief. “If you insist, I will do it, but why I should, I cannot grasp. Surely you must know that we all wish you well, and are grateful for your saving of Amanda Thomas’ life. Nothing would please us more than to see you well-situated. Not for that act alone,” she appended in some confusion. “Any man would be more than satisfied to win you for himself had you done nothing so noble as that.”

Madelaine held up her hands in a gesture of supplication. “There is no reason to think that I have done anything remarkable. It was what anyone would do in the same situation.”

“Do you think so?” Fanny inquired, genuinely surprised at the notion. “I would like to believe you, but I already realize I am incapable of dealing with any such tragedy.” She lowered her gaze to the flower beds. “This will be so splendid next spring. Don’t you look forward to seeing it?”

“Yes,” Madelaine answered, “and I regret that I will no longer be in San Francisco when they bloom.”

Fanny’s expression was shocked now. “What are you saying, Madame?”

“Only that my purpose for being in this country will take me away from here before much more time goes by; I will be leaving before winter sets in and makes travel too hazardous,” said Madelaine, trying to make these statements calmly so that Fanny would not be too inquisitive about her plans.

“Gracious,” said Fanny, nonplused to the point of silence for a moment. “What purpose do you have, Madame de Montalia?”

“I am making a study of America; the United States are part of my subjects.” It was not a lie, Madelaine reminded herself, though it was not quite the truth.

“But why would you want to do that?” Fanny marveled. “Why should a wellborn woman like you undertake so dangerous a task?”

“Curiosity,” said Madelaine. “Women are supposed to be more curious than men, aren’t they?”

“Well, I suppose so,” said Fanny dubiously, then turned as she heard her name called. She waved in response, then looked guiltily at Madelaine. “Oh, dear. You must excuse me, Madame; my husband needs me.”

“By all means,” said Madelaine, and went back to her perusal of the flower beds. But she could not bring herself to concentrate on what she saw now, for Fanny Kent’s well-meaning interference niggled at the back of her thoughts, and she remembered how Saint-Germain had cautioned her against making herself too noticeable in society. At the time, she had thought it the advice of someone being too protective, but now she could perceive the reason for his warning, and she tried to think of how best to undo the damage she had done.

A short while later, Baron deStoeckl found her once more. He carried a glass of champagne and he smiled broadly at her, his manner wholly amiable, his eyes shrewd. As usual, he addressed her in French. “How are you faring, Madame?”

“Well enough,” she said, taking care not to appear too interested in him. “Fanny Kent was hoping that she could make a match with us.”

Baron deStoeckl chuckled. “And did you tell her of my promised bride at home?”

“Yes,” said Madelaine. “I think she was more disappointed than shocked.” She indicated the half-grown cypress at the end of the garden. “Those will be fine trees in another ten years or so.”

“True enough,” the Baron agreed, making no attempt to return to the subject of Fanny’s match-making. He strolled along beside her toward the trees, content to say little as they went. Finally, as they reached the foot of the garden, he remarked, “I hope you will not allow yourself to worry about what she said to you.”

“It is not my intention, no,” said Madelaine, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Because most people here know how to take what she says. They realize that she is of that kind of temperament, and give credence to her words with reservation. Also, at such an occasion as this one, it is all but expected that the celebrating couple will want to see all their guests happily disposed.”

“You’re doubtless correct,” said Madelaine, and went on impulsively, “but it galls me to think I have been foolish enough to expose myself to her. . . .”

“Scrutiny?” suggested deStoeckl when Madelaine did not go on.

“Something of the sort,” she admitted. “Though that may be too strong a word,” she added an instant later.

They started back to where most of the guests were gathered. DeStoeckl gestured to indicate the expansive garden. “You know, at the rate this city is growing, holdings of this size will soon vanish. I predict that in another three years there will be four houses here.”

“Do you think so?” Madelaine inquired.

“Only consider how rapidly the city has expanded since the Gold Rush. Ask William what it was like when he was in California the first time. It was nothing like the place you see now. Once the Rush was on, San Francisco mushroomed. And it is mushrooming still.” He grinned impishly. “William learned a great deal then, and it has stood him in good stead now. In fact, he was one of the first to know about the gold discovery. He claims that at the time, he paid little attention to it, having other things on his mind. Ask him why they called Monterey Bay ‘Sherman’s Punch Bowl,’ six years ago.”

“I didn’t know,” said Madelaine quietly, thinking that she needed to know much more about Tecumseh than she did. “You may be right about the city,” she went on with more verve. “Though it would be a pity to lose this garden.”

“The price of land is rising steadily,” deStoeckl reminded her. “And buildings are going up everywhere. I venture to guess that the city will one day stretch from the Bay to the Pacific.”

This struck Madelaine as unlikely and she was about to say so when Colonel Thomas came up to her, an eager expression on his face. “Good afternoon,” said Madelaine, who wanted to forestall any effusiveness.

“To you as well, kind Madame,” said Colonel Thomas, shaking hands with the Baron before giving his whole attention to Madelaine. “I hoped I might find you here. My wife is still not sufficiently recovered to be with me today, but she asked me, if I saw you, to extend to you again her heartfelt thanks for all you did on her behalf.”

“Colonel Thomas, we have said enough on this head already,” she protested as cordially as she could, fearing that their encounter was the subject of general attention. “Give your wife my good wishes for her continued recovery.”

“I will, and she will thank you for them.” He bowed slightly. “I don’t wish to cause you embarrassment, Madame, you are so modest a female. I will take myself away now. But if ever I can be of service, or any of my family, you have only to let me know of it.”

“You’re kindness itself,” said Madelaine, beginning to feel oppressed by the occasion. She looked around and noticed that deStoeckl was deep in a discussion with four men she had not met. It was all she could do to contain her irritation; she wanted to leave the anniversary party, though it was much too soon, and would draw notice to her departure; which was the last thing she wished to do. So she went into the house and looked about for whatever passed for a library; the chance to read would calm her and diminish her anxiety.

There were two small shelves of books in the withdrawing room. With a sigh she resigned herself to the limited fare, and taking the copy of
Bleak House
from the shelf, she sat down to read, hoping to find what it was that Sherman so admired in Dickens.

“I wondered what had become of you,” said a voice from the door; a young importer stood there, smiling fatuously at Madelaine. “No fair, running off the way you did.”

“It is too bright in the garden; I fear I do poorly in the sun,” she said, noticing that the fellow looked a bit flushed. “As do you, it would seem.”

“The sun don’t bother me,” he boasted, and held up his glass to toast her. “But not looking at you does. You’re better than the sun any day of the week.”

This flattery was more alarming than complimenting; Madelaine began to wonder if the high color in the young man’s face came from too much champagne rather than too much sun; there was a certain glaze to his eyes that suggested it. A quiver of alarm went through her as she recalled other unwelcome encounters: Alain Baundilet in Omat’s garden, Gerard le Mat on the road to her estate in Provence, Ralph Whitestone in her box after
The Duchess of Malfi.
“Thank you for the pretty words,” she said automatically, continuing with great deliberation, “I think, perhaps, it is time we rejoined the others.”

The young man gave her a lupine grin. “Not so fast. I thought we could have a little . . . talk all on our own.”

“Did you?” Madelaine closed the novel and slipped it back into its place on the shelf. “I fear you were mistaken.” She rose and started toward the door, not so quickly that she would seem to confront the young man. With all the composure she could muster, she said, “If you will let me by?”

He extended his arms to block the door. “I don’t think so.”

“Mister . . .” She could not bring his name to mind; it was something simple, uncomplicated, not as obvious as Smith. Although she was concerned, she continued to maintain her outward calm. “There is no reason to do this.”

“There’s plenty of reason,” said the intruder, enjoying his position of advantage. “And a Frenchwoman shouldn’t need to be told what that is.”

Madelaine frowned. She could always scream, but that would defeat the whole purpose of her withdrawal—to remove herself from observation and the occasion for comment—and give new fodder to the scandal-hungry gossips. “I don’t think you want to do this,” she began reasonably. “Please stand aside.” She thought she sounded like a schoolmistress with a recalcitrant pupil.

“Not on your life,” the young man said, swaying toward her. “Not while I have this chance.” He drank the last of the champagne in his glass, tossed it away without paying any notice to its shattering, then reached out for her.

Madelaine thought to get around him and was about to reach for something she could use for a weapon when Sherman abruptly forced his way into the withdrawing room, grabbing the young man by the front of his shirt to back him up against the wall, leaning hard against him, pinning him to the wainscoting. “You didn’t hear the lady, sir. She asked you to stand aside.”

The young man blanched and sweat broke out on his forehead. “I . . . I . . . ”

“And you will do it, won’t you?” Sherman demanded through clenched teeth.

“I . . .” Though bulkier than Sherman, the young man was terrified, and he squirmed in an attempt to escape; Sherman leaned harder. “Oh, God.”

The relief and gratitude that had filled Madelaine a moment before vanished in a wash of exasperation. “Mister Sherman,” she said crisply, “I think he has taken your meaning.”

Sherman kept his relentless grip on the fellow. “You will apologize to the lady, sir,” he ordered.

“I . . . sorry . . . I didn’t mean. . . .” He stopped as Sherman released his hold and moved back. “I . . . just a mistake. Never meant anything . . . untoward. Upon my word, Madame.” He was shaking and kept glancing quickly at Sherman, then at the windows, anything to avoid looking directly at Madelaine for fear of the banker’s wrath.

“And because it was a mistake, you will say nothing to anyone, will you?” Sherman pursued, giving the younger man no chance to capitalize on his gaffe through boasting or smugness.

“No. No, I won’t. Ever.” With that he bolted from the room. His hasty, uneven footsteps were loud.

The withdrawing room was still, neither Madelaine nor Sherman being willing to speak first. She relented before he did. “Mister Sherman. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I arrived not long after you did,” he said, keeping his distance.

She had nothing to say to that. “How did you happen to follow that young man in here?”

“Winters? I heard him boast that he would get a better taste of France than champagne. When I saw him come into the house, I followed; I had an idea he might attempt something of this sort.” He looked at her directly. “I’m sorry I was right. I would not have you subjected to . . . such things for anything.”

“Thanks to your intervention, I wasn’t,” she said bluntly, and could read shock in his face. “His intentions were. . . .”

“If he had touched you, I would have killed him,” said Sherman with quiet certainty.

She achieved a rallying tone. “Now that
would
have been a grand gesture. And neither of our reputations would survive it, so it is just as well you arrived when you did.” She managed to keep her hands from shaking as she slipped out the door. “Speaking of reputations, it might be wise if we did not leave this room at the same time. I will go back to the garden now; follow when you think best.”

He nodded, and before she could turn away, he blew her a kiss.

San Francisco, 22 September, 1855

There has been more rain; I am told this is earlier than is usual in this part of the country. Some of the farmers on the outskirts of the city are complaining bitterly that their crops will have to be sacrificed to the rain, and none are more distressed than those whose orchards are not yet fully picked.

Olga left this morning on the stage coach, bound for Sacramento, where she has been informed her sister can be found. She is distraught because it appears her sister’s husband has deserted her, and this, she claims, has never happened in their family. I have paid her to the end of October and given her an excellent reference, which is all she would take from me. I am now left with trying to decide if I should find another housekeeper for another month, or fend for myself. I cannot see that I need to have the housekeeper, but Tecumseh informs me that I could easily be compromised if I do not have a woman living here to provide adequate chaperonage.

I have warned him of my coming departure, but I doubt he believes I truly mean to go, not with winter coming on, though I have reminded him that winter is the wisest time to cross the deserts to the south and east of here. He will not ask me to stay, nor would I, but I think he would like to delay my leaving, no matter how difficult that would become for us both. . . .