In The Face Of Death (6 page)

“On the Elixir of Life,” he said, one hand sliding down her flank. “And how is this mysterious Elixir obtained?”

“It is taken from those who are willing to give it,” she answered quietly. “Where there is understanding, and passion, there is also great . . . joy.”

“Joy,” he echoed as if the word were terrible even as he pulled her inexorably nearer, kissing her with what he had intended as roughness but what became a tenderness of such intensity that he felt all his senses fill with her. He tried to push her away but his body would not answer the stern command of his will, and as she guided his hands over the treasure of her flesh, he surrendered to her with all the strength of his desire.

“Slowly,” she whispered as she flicked her tongue over his nipples, seeing his shock and delight. “It is better if you savor it.”

“God and the Devils! I am ready to explode!” He kicked back the sheet to show her, proud and embarrassed at once. “Hurry, Madelaine. I am at the brink.”

“Not yet,” said Madelaine, bending to kiss him again as she straddled him. “Do not deny yourself the full measure of your passion, for you would also deny me. This is not a race where the glory goes to the swiftest.” Then, with exquisite languor, she guided him deep within her.

His breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “I can’t. . . .”

“You can,” she promised, remaining very still until he opened his eyes. Then she began to move with him, feeling his guard fall away as his ardor became adoration at the instant her lips brushed his throat.

They lay together until the first pre-dawn call of birds warned them of coming day.

“I don’t want to leave,” Sherman said, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You have enthralled me, Madelaine.”

“And I am bound to you, Tecumseh,” she said.

With sudden passion, he pulled her close against him, his long fingers tangled in her hair. “What have you done to me?”

“Touched you,” she answered. “And you me.”

As he rose, goose-flesh on his pale skin, he touched the arch of her lip. “We will have to be very careful, very discreet. They know, the women here, that a man has appetites, but they will not look on you with the same understanding.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I know,” and turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand.

He gathered up his clothes with care and dressed quickly, listening for the sounds in the street. “I don’t want anyone to know I’ve come here,” he told her, his manner stern. “For both our sakes.”

She had got out of bed and pulled on a heavy silken peignoir. “I am not about to cry it to the world.”

He paused in the door, regarding her steadily. “No, you are not,” he conceded with a curious mixture of relief and exasperation. “It isn’t in you to do that.” Then he smiled, and the harshness left his face. He held his arms open to her and she ran into them.

San Francisco, 1 July, 1855

Yesterday I met Tecumseh’s two children, though he tells me he has a third child, Minnie, living with her grandparents, an arrangement which does not entirely please him. The children currently living with him were with him at a puppet show presented near the old Mission; a number of San Francisco society brought their children to this entertainment, and I came with the Kents, at their invitation.

He is clearly fond of both children, but takes the keenest delight in his son Willy, who is still a baby; the boy has hair almost as red as his father’s, and is quick and amiable. It is no wonder his father dotes on him. . . .

At last I have sorted out my books and journals. Most of my notes are prepared and ready, and I am about to set to work in earnest. . . .

Sherman read the first three pages in growing disbelief. “Indians,” he said to her at last,
“Indians!
What in infernal damnation do you mean with this?”

Madelaine watched him as he began to pace her front parlor, ignoring the raised, cautioning finger Baron deStoeckl offered him. “It is the subject of my studies.” She was in a deep green afternoon dress and her hair was neatly dressed, as suited any woman prepared to receive guests, and the filmy light from her curtained windows gave the whole room a soft, pale glow.

“Indians! What is the matter with you? How can you be such a romantic fool?” He was dusty from riding and made no excuse for it as he prowled his way about the room, refusing to look directly at her, for fear he might give himself away. “What do you know about Indians?”

“I have been studying them,” said Madelaine, determined not to argue so uselessly.

“Studying! A nice word for it! But what do you know about them?” He put down the pages in triumph.

“Not nearly enough,” she answered calmly. “That is why I study them, to end my ignorance.”

“But you do not know what they are like; you prove that by what you say now,” Sherman persisted. “You are one of the dreamers, thinking you have come upon discarded wisdom or neglected perceptions. You haven’t a notion what kind of superstitious, bloody savages they are.”

“Some might say the same of me,” Madelaine said in an undervoice, then spoke up. “I have already spent time among the Osage, the Kiowa, the Pawnee, the Arapaho, the Cheyenne, the Ute, the Shoshone, and the Miwok, without anything untoward happening to me. I am working from my journals and other records I have made of them to prepare my book.”

Sherman stared at her aghast. “Is
that
what you were doing after you arrived in America? Living with
Indians?”

“For the most part, yes,” Madelaine said, her face betraying no emotion.

“Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” Sherman insisted, this time looking directly at her. “You think they are all the noble savages Europeans so admire, but I’ve fought Indian skirmishers, mapping in the South, and I know what they can be. I do not need a pitched battle to show me what cruelty they embody.”

“They did me no harm, and I do not think they would ever do me any,” said Madelaine. “Once they realized what I wanted to know, and were convinced of my sincerity, they were most co-operative. They permitted me to study them. As I expected they would do, since they are reasonable peoples.” It was not quite the truth, and she was aware that Sherman knew it, but she was not willing to debate the matter with him.

“You were luckier than you had any right to be,” said Sherman brusquely, breaking away from the spell of her violet eyes.

“How can you say that?” Madelaine asked, unable to keep from responding to his challenge though she realized that he was deliberately provoking her. “What danger is one European woman to them?”

“I was referring to the danger one European woman is in from them, little as she is willing to acknowledge it,” said Sherman dryly. “I have some experience of Indians, remember. I have seen the Seminole, Madame, and know to my cost what implacable enemies they can be. They killed troopers who were doing them no harm whatever. They would ambush a few men and pick them off with arrows and blowguns. Indians are dangerous. And if the European woman is not willing to accept my advice, then be it on her head.”

Baron deStoeckl cleared his throat. “Perhaps each of you has made a point? In your own ways,” he suggested in French. “I do not mean to increase dissention, but it seems to me that there is good reason to concede points each to the other.”

Sherman rounded on him, his brows drawn down, his mouth a thin line. “I do not want any misfortune to befall her.”

“And I do not want any greater misfortunes to befall my Indian friends, since they have endured so much already though they never complain of it,” said Madelaine, sensing that Sherman might understand this better than he admitted. “You do know that many of them have been forced to change their way of life since the Europeans arrived here.”

“As the Europeans were forced to change their ways of life when they came to this wilderness.” Sherman sighed once, his breathing strained. “It was not like visiting another European country, coming to this one. It still isn’t, though we have cities and a few of the amenities of life. Not as we do in the East, of course, but this is not the frontier, as it was when I was here eight years ago. Then there were only a dozen streets in the whole of San Francisco.” He sat down abruptly, his face draining of color as the severity of his asthma attack increased.

Madelaine recognized the symptoms; she asked Baron deStoeckl to tend to Sherman for the moment so that she could fetch something that would ease his labored breathing.

“Certainly,” said Baron deStoeckl.

“No need,” wheezed Sherman.

“Because it offends your pride to be helped?” Madelaine suggested, then excused herself and hurried toward the back of her house, calling to Olga to assist her. “I have a number of large stoneware jars in the cellar. Will you bring me the one with the green seal. At once.”

“Certainly,” said Olga, who was busy with the washtub on the stove. She wiped her hands on her apron and took a lantern, struck a lucifer and lit the wick before descending into the cellar through the door in the rear of the pantry.

Madelaine occupied herself making a toddy of honey and brandy, which she knew Sherman often used when he could not burn nitre paper. As Olga emerged with the stoneware jar tucked in the crook of her arm, Madelaine said, “Break the seal. Use a knife.”

“What is the matter?” asked Olga as she blew out the lantern-flame and set to work on the seal. “And why do you need this to deal with the situation? What is in this jar?” She would not look directly at Madelaine as she went on.

“Mister Sherman suffers from asthma, and just now it is troubling him,” said Madelaine as calmly as she could. “I see no reason why he should continue to suffer unnecessarily. A little of the liquid in that container, mixed with hot water, should offer him some relief.”

“But what is it?” asked Olga as she set about opening the jar.

“A very old remedy. I obtained it while traveling in Egypt.” She made a gesture of satisfaction as the kettle came to the boil. “Here. Bring me the jar. You have it open, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Olga uncertainly as she sniffed at the mouth of the jar. “It has no odor.”

“No, It doesn’t,” Madelaine agreed as she took the jar and tipped some of its contents into the cup she had prepared. “That is very good. If you will cork the jar and put it back in the cellar?”

Olga shrugged and did as she was told.

Madelaine finished making the toddy and hurried toward the front parlor where she could hear Sherman trying not to cough as he labored to breathe. Baron deStoeckl was patting Sherman on the back and frowning at his efforts, when Madelaine moved him aside and held out the cup and saucer to her stricken guest.

“What’s this?” Sherman demanded with difficulty.

“The toddy you’ve mentioned to me. It will make you better directly,” she promised him. “Drink it before it grows too cool to help you.”

Sherman glowered at her, but took the proffered cup and winced at the heat as he sipped at it. When the contents were half gone, he was noticeably improved, his breathing more regular and less uncomfortable. “Thank you, Madame,” he said as soon as he was sitting upright.

“Finish the toddy, Mister Sherman. You are better but not restored yet.” Madelaine watched him sternly as he drank the rest and set the cup and saucer aside on the rosewood end table beside his chair. “Very good.”

“I am pleased you think so, Madame,” said Sherman with a wry smile. “What a stern task-mistress.”

“I am concerned for your well-being, Mister Sherman. Who else would handle my affairs as well as you have?” This was intended to restore some formality to their conversation, but it did not succeed.

“What other banker would care enough to ignore the impropriety of your studies?” Sherman said with a gesture of capitulation that made the sharp-eyed Baron deStoeckl raise his brows in surprise.

“I doubt you will do that, Mister Sherman. I suspect you will adopt a flanking strategy and try to wear down my resolve through a series of skirmishes, like the Seminole,” Madelaine did her best to make this a teasing suggestion, one that was not to be taken seriously by either man.

Sherman grinned. “Yes, a series of skirmishes along your flanks would be most rewarding.”

The Baron lifted his hands to show he was helpless against these blatant flirtations. He leaned down and made one last attempt. “My good friend William, I think you are taking advantage of our hostess.”

“I would certainly like to,” said Sherman incorrigibly. Now that he was feeling markedly better, he was seized with high spirits. “A covert campaign is required.”

“God and the Archangels!” Baron deStoeckl burst out. “What of your reputations?”

Sherman regarded his friend with an arch look. “What danger are they in? You will not repeat what we say here, will you? I know Madame de Montalia will not, and neither will I, so where is the problem? He will keep our secret.” He got up and strode to Madelaine’s side, purpose in every line of his lean body. “Don’t preach to me about good sense and prudence. Not now. Not here.” With that, he caught her up in his arms and bent to kiss her.

Few things flustered Madelaine; this unexpected demonstration unnerved her thoroughly. She felt her face redden, and when she could speak, she said, “What a burden you are putting on your friend. Think, Tecumseh.” She glanced at the Baron, about to apologize for the impropriety of it all when Sherman took her by the shoulders and nearly shook her.

“Damnit, woman, I want someone to know.” Sherman looked down into her eyes and his sternness vanished. He went on quietly, “I want at least one man I can trust to see what I feel for you, so that I will be able to talk with him about what you mean to me when . . . this is over.”

“When your wife returns,” said Madelaine.

“When you leave,” said Sherman.

Baron deStoeckl bowed to them both. “You may rely on my discretion,” he promised them in French.

San Francisco, 11 July, 1855

Tecumseh has been in one of his black moods these last three days, and nothing I can do seems to cheer him. . . . He has warned me of these bouts of desolation which come upon him from time to time, though he understated the severity of his incidents. Nothing, he claims, can be done to mitigate them. Even his children are unable to lure him from the terrible despair that has overtaken him. He has sent word that he will not dine with me this evening or tomorrow evening or the day after. Had he not warned me of these starts of his, I would be more troubled by him than I am, and I am troubled enough. . . .