Read The Damnation Affair Online
Authors: Lilith Saintcrow
The Damnation Affair (9 page)
“Ma’am.” Mercy was back to flour-pale, and she shook the marm’s hand once, limply. A tense silence rose, dust whisking along the street on a brisk fresh breeze. It would be hot later. Finally, Mercy swallowed visibly. “How do.”
Miss Barrowe glanced quickly at Gabe, her expression unreadable. “Where are my manners? Do come in. May I offer you some tea? I know Mr. Gabriel prefers coffee—”
“No ma’am.” Mercy’s fingers tightened on his arm. A spate of words came out in a rush, like a flash flood up in the hills. “I aim to have you listen. We—some of the girls and me—we wants our letters. I mean, we want to do some larnin’.
Book
larnin’, and figures.” The saloon girl freed one hand, digging in her skirt pocket. “We can pay you. We want it all respectable-like.” A handful of rolled-together bills came up, and Gabe noticed a stain on Mercy’s gloved wrist. Looked like whiskey.
Maybe she’d needed it to brace her. He kept his mouth shut, and winced again when he thought of Tils’s likely reaction to this. And the money—often, saloon girls didn’t see actual cash. More of Mercy’s nervousness seemed downright reasonable, now.
Miss Barrowe did not even bat one sweet little eyelash. “I see. Please, Miss Tiergale, put that away and come inside. As I am engaged to teach in this town and my salary is paid by the town itself, I s [n i toee no need for you to—”
“We’re saloon girls, ma’am.” Flung like a challenge. “Six of us. In the afternoons before the real drinkin’ starts, that’s when we have time.”
Miss Barrowe nodded briskly. “Then after I finish with my other pupils, I shall be glad to help you and your fellow…ladies educate yourselves. Are you quite certain you won’t come in and have some tea while we discuss this?”
“No ma’am.” Mercy’s arm came up, rigid, and she proffered the bills. “Wouldn’t want you to miss church. Do you take our money, and I’ll be on my way.”
Miss Barrowe’s glance flickered to Gabe’s face again. Her curls were expertly arranged, and that dress looked soft enough for angels to nest in. A faint breath of rosewater reached him, under the tang of cigar smoke and spilled drink, sawdust and sweat from Mercy. He was suddenly very aware that Mercy had his arm, and that Miss Barrowe might draw a conclusion or two from that.
I don’t care.
But it had a hollow ring, and it was maybe the wrong time for Jack Gabriel to start lying to himself.
“I believe it might be best for Sheriff Gabriel to hold your money.” Miss Barrowe straightened slightly, her shoulders going back. A touch of lace around the neckline of her dress was incredibly distracting; he found he couldn’t look away. “You shall engage my services as a teacher for a certain length of time—a month, perhaps? Then we shall again address the question of payment, if you are satisfied with my methods and your progress.” A slight curve of her lips. “That would make every aspect of this eminently respectable, since Mr. Gabriel is a representative of the town that engaged me.”
Well, now.
“Seems a right fair idea,” he offered, but neither woman appeared to pay much heed. Mercy’s lips moved slightly as she worked this around in her head, and Miss Barrowe held the saloon girl’s gaze. Invisible woman-signals flashed between them like charmgraph dots and dashes, and finally Mercy relaxed a trifle.
“I b’lieve that’ll do.” She let loose of Gabe’s arm long enough to roll the wad of bills more tightly, and offered it to him. “Will you hold this, Gabe?”
“Be right pleased to,” he mumbled. Why were his cheeks hot?
“Very well.” Miss Barrowe closed her front door with a small, definite
snick
. “Are you accompanying me to church, Miss Tiergale?”
“No ma’am.” Mercy stared at the ground now, Miss Barrowe’s dainty boots clicking on the steps as she picked her way down to the garden path. The marm opened her parasol with an expert flicker and flutter, and—surprisingly enough—offered her own arm to the saloon girl. “It ain’t proper. Leastways—”
“That,” the schoolmarm said decisively, “is a great shame. Would you care to walk with me at least as far as the Lucky Star? I believe it is upon my route.”
Mercy almost flinched. “No ma’am. There’d just be trouble if…well.”
“Don’t you worry.” Gabe’s cheeks would
not
cool down. He had the attention of both women, now, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d spoken up. “Tils gives you trouble, you come right on over to me.”
Mercy actually laughed, cupping one gloved hand over her mouth. There was, however, little of merriment in the sound. She knew as well as he did that he couldn’t settle down in the Star and stare Tils into keeping his temper permanently. “Mighty kind of you, Gabe. I’d best be on my way. Thank you, ma’am. When are we fixing to start?”
“Tomorrow is Monday.” Miss Barrowe now looked faintly perplexed, a small line between her eyebrows. “If that suits you, and the other ladies.”
“Suits us fine, ma’am. Mornin’.” And [insmall l with that, Mercy Tiergale turned on one worn-down bootheel and strode off, her skirt snapping a bit as the morning breeze freshened.
He searched for something to say. The parasol had dipped, so Miss Barrowe’s face was shadowed. He doubted her expression would be anything but polite and cool. “Right kind of you, ma’am.”
She was silent for a long moment. He could have kicked himself. Should have followed Mercy and not given the miss a chance to snub him.
“Is there likely to be trouble arising from this, Mr. Gabriel?” The lacy stuff shivered as she adjusted her parasol, and the honest worry in her clear dark eyes pinched at him.
Just why, though, he couldn’t say.
“Not if I can help it.” His jaw set. “You just settle your mind, Miss Barrowe.”
“I don’t mean for me,” she persisted. “For Miss Tiergale. She seemed…concerned.”
“I said to settle your mind.” He half-turned, offered his arm without much hope. “Walk you to church, ma’am?”
Her gloved hand stole forward, crept into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there. “Does that mean I shouldn’t worry for Miss Tiergale, as you will assist her and her…compatriots?”
“It means I can handle one whorehouse manager, ma’am.” As soon as it left his lips he regretted himself. “Beg pardon.”
Her lips had pressed together. Her free hand hovered near her mouth, but her eyes were wide and sparkling. She composed herself, and her smile was almost as bright as Damnation’s morning sun as she turned slightly, her skirt brushing his knee as she leaned ever so slightly on him. “Indeed. I have faith in your ability, sir. Forgive my repeating myself, but will you be attending
church today?”
He thought of saying he had pressing business, but it seemed all good sense had deserted him. The pressure of her fingers inside his elbow was a popcharm, jolting up all the way to his shoulder. “Yes ma’am.”
Oh, Hell.
C
at rubbed delicately at the skin about her eyes. It was drowsy-hot, especially in the schoolroom, and the scratching on the board was enough to set even a saint’s teeth on edge. Cecily Dalrymple was writing out
I will not throw ink
, her fair blonde face set in mutinous agony. The rest of the children, temporarily chastened, bent over their slates, and Cat took a deep breath. “Once more,” she said, patiently, and little Patrick Gibbons almost stuttered as he recited.
“A…B…C…”
“Very good,” she encouraged, ignoring the fidgets. The youngest students chorused with Patrick, raggedly but enthusiastically. They made their way through the alphabet, and Cat’s warm glow of entirely justified (in her opinion) satisfaction was marred only by the back row’s restlessness.
Miss Bowdler’s books were very useful, but Cat had learned more applicable skills following her mother about on the endless round of charity work a Barrowe-Browne was obliged to undertake. Not to mention the example of one of her governesses—a certain Miss Ayre, quiet and plain but with a steely tone that had made even Robbie sit up and take notice on those few occasions her patience had worn thin.
It was Miss Ayre’s example she found herself drawing on most frequently, especially as every child in the schoolroom was dismally untaught. Ignorance and undirected energy conspired to make them fractious, but they were on the whole more than willing to work, and work
hard
, once she gave t ^insmndirectehem a direction. Perhaps it was the novelty of her presence.
Still, there were troubles. The Dalrymple girls, for one. Turning those two hoydens into respectable damsels was perhaps beyond Cat’s power, but she had an inkling of a plan. The older girl’s longing glances at the sad, shrouded pianoforte had not passed unnoticed, and Cat suspected that with the offer of lessons she would have a valuable carrot to dangle before the haughty creature.
“That is
quite
enough,” she said sternly. Mancy sparked on her fingers, and there was a crackle. Little Tommy Beaufort let out a garbled sound and thumped back into his seat. “Mr. Beaufort, since you are so eager, stand and recite your alphabet instead of tossing rubbish at your classmates. Begin.”
“A…B…C…”
Hoofbeats outside.
That
explained the restlessness of the back rows—they had heard the noise before she did. Was it Mr. Gabriel again? Whoever it was seemed in quite a hurry, but she held Tommy to his recitation, nodding slightly.
The horse did not pass the schoolhouse.
Who could that be?
But she stayed where she was, standing beside her desk, and when Tommy finished she gave him a tight smile. “Very good. Now, first form, take your slates out and begin copying from the top line on the board—
A fox is quick
. Second form—”
Thundering bootsteps, and the door was flung open. Cat blinked.
It was Mr. Tilson, the owner of the Lucky Star. She had seen him in church just yesterday, nodding along to Mr. Vancey the cartwright’s stumbling reading of the Book. Mr. Gabriel had sat next to her, his hands on his knees and his face as dull and unresponsive as she had ever seen it.
Mr. Tilson was sweating, and had obviously ridden hard. Foam and dust hung on him in spatters, and his suit coat was sadly rumpled. He was red-faced, too, and Cat stared at him curiously. His hat was cocked sideways, and the slicked-down strands of his dark hair were dangerously disarranged.
“
You!
” He pointed at Cat, and spat the word. “
You
. I’ve words for you,
Miss
.”
What on earth?
She drew herself up. The children had frozen, including Cecily Dalrymple at the board. Their eyes were wide and round, and quite justifiable irritation flashed under Cat’s skin. “Mr. Tilson. You shall not shout indoors, sir. It sets a bad example.”
That brought him up short. The redness of his cheeks and the ugly flush on his neck was not merely from the heat. It was also, Cat suspected, pure choler.
He actually spluttered a little, and her fingers found the yardstick laid across her desk. “Step outside, sir. I shall deal with you in a moment, once I have finished giving the second and third forms their lessons. Miss Dalrymple, you may return to your seat; that is quite enough.”
“I ain’t gonna be put off—” Mr. Tilson started, and Cat searched for her mother’s voice. It came easily, for once.
“
Sir
.” Every speck of dust in the room flashed under her tone. “You
shall not
disturb my students further. Step outside. And do close the door properly, the wind and heat are very bad today.”
His jaw worked, but he seemed to finally realize the eyes of every child in the room were upon him. He backed up a single step, his gaze purely venomous, and whirled, banging the door shut.
Cat’s knuckles ached, gripping the wooden yardstick. Her heart pounded. She tilted her chin slightly, an ache beginning between her shoulder blades.
I can handle a whorehouse manager
, Mr. Gabriel had said. Surely a Barrowe-Browne could do no less. At least it was not a shambling corpse at the door.
That was an entirely unwelcome thought, and she did her best to put it a ct t between hway. “Second form, take your slates and solve the row of sums under first form’s line. Third form—”
All three of you, who can puzzle out a word or two.
“Take out your primers and occupy yourselves with page six.”
“Yes ma’am,” no few of them chorused, and Cecily Dalrymple actually sat down without flouncing, for once. Cat suspected she might regret showing leniency, but there was nothing for it.
She passed down the aisle, stepping over the cleansed patch where the corpse had landed—there was no evidence of it on the floorboards, but she still disliked setting her feet in that vicinity—and braced herself for whatever unpleasantness was about to ensue.
* * *
“
You
.” Tilson pointed a stubby finger at her. “What are you playing at? Them whores don’t need to read!”
So that’s it.
Her mother’s voice still served her well—the exact tone Frances Barrowe-Browne would use in dealing with an overeager gentleman, or a brute of a salesman who sought to engage her custom. “You will adopt a civilized tone in speaking to me, sir.” Cat drew in a sharp soundless breath. Dust whirled along the dry track serving as a road, and the horse Tilson had arrived on hung its head near the trough, its sides lathered. “And your horse requires some care.”
“God
damn
the horse, and God damn you, too! Civilized tone my
ass
. What’n hell you think you’re doing, teaching whores to read? I won’t have it!”
She still held the yardstick, and the image of cracking him across the knuckles with it was satisfying in its own way. Cat gazed at him for a few long moments, her face set, one eyebrow arched in imitation of her mother’s fearsome You Are Not In Good Form expression.
When she was certain she had his attention, and further certain that he was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous, she tapped the yardstick against the schoolhouse’s ramshackle porch. The shade here was most welcome, though she quailed a bit inwardly at the thought of the afternoon walk back to her little cottage. “The next moment you use such language, sir, this conversation is over. Now, am I to understand you have an objection to some of my students?”