A Light For My Love, page 22
"What are you doing up here, Susan? China has been looking everywhere for you."
She smiled at him. "I come up here every day to watch for your ship. I knew you'd come home. That's why China keeps the lamp in the hall window. So you'd see it and come back."
At her mention of the lamp, Jake swallowed. "Susan— " he began, but she rushed on, as though afraid of what he'd say if given the chance.
"See?" she said, holding out a locket. "I've kept your photograph here, close to my heart. I've never forgotten you, Edwin."
From the corner of his eye, Jake detected movement and felt, rather than saw, China lingering in the doorway, quiet as a cat. He silently complimented her for figuring out they were here; he felt as if he might need a witness.
Susan opened her locket's hinged face to show him a picture of Edwin Price. He'd had a good face, a strong one, but he'd borne no particular physical resemblance to Jake, except that his hair was nearly identical in color.
Jake groped for something to say that would make her see reason. Only one possibility came to him. He hunched forward on the stool, his elbows on his knees, his hands laced between them. "When I was six years old, I lost my mother." He sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor, wondering if there was any point in opening this wound. But when he glanced up at her, she seemed to be listening, so he went on. "Nearly everyone in Astoria thinks she died. But she didn't. She just picked up and left town."
In the shadow of the doorway, China felt her eyes widen at this revelation, and with great effort she quelled a surprised gasp. But she jostled the candle in her fist and felt hot wax splash on her fingers.
"Well, being so young, I didn't understand how she could do that. And, God, I missed her something awful. So I used to pretend that she was just gone for a while—you know, visiting friends in Seaside or in Olney—and then she'd be home. But eventually I had to face the truth: she wasn't coming back. I never saw her again." Jake leaned forward and put one hand on Susan's arm and the other flat to his chest. "I'm not your husband, Susan. I'm John Jacob Chastaine. Edwin Price drowned at sea, and he isn't coming home either."
China bit her lower lip, hard, to keep her eyes from welling up.
Susan stared at Jake. "But—"
He just shook his head again. "No."
She turned away then and rested her head against the window. There was nothing to see now but the lights along the waterfront. Time dangled in the silence. "I know," she replied finally, choking the words out. "It was so hard to lose him. I just didn't want it to be true, s-so I told myself that it wasn't. When you came—you don't really look much like him, but you reminded me of him. I thought maybe . . . " She spoke against the glass, misting it with her words.
Jake drew a deep breath and glanced at China, subtly motioning her forward.
China left the doorway and approached slowly, not sure how to proceed. "Susan, dear, will you come downstairs now? Aunt Gert will fix you soup and a toddy."
Susan kept her face turned to the window. Her voice sounded like an old woman's, tired, defeated. "Can I have it in my room?"
"Of course you can. That sounds like a wonderful treat." China came closer and touched her shoulder. Susan rose from the step and buried her face against China's neck, apparently unable to face Jake. China flashed him a look of unspoken gratitude and mimed that he should go downstairs himself.
Jake watched the two women leave, then sat on
the stool again for a moment, as weary as he'd ever been in his life.
*~*~*
When China walked into the kitchen an hour later with Susan's tray, Jake was sitting at the table, cleaned up and combed. He'd carelessly slung his big frame on one of the chairs, and the gaslight reflected off his thick, pale hair, casting shadows under his jade eyes and across the bones of his strong hands. The remnants of Aunt Gert's thrown-together meal of soup and a sandwich lay before him on the tablecloth.
Seeing him there, looking tired but still painfully attractive, made her pause. And tired though she was, the sight of him, long-boned and lean-muscled, retained the power to bring a heat to her face.
"How is she?" he asked. There was no question who he meant.
"I gave her a sleeping powder. Maybe she'll feel better tomorrow." She shook her head worriedly. "I hope so, anyway." Taking the tray to the sink, she felt like she'd packed more trays to more people than she could count.
"I want to thank you for what you did upstairs, Jake." She turned to face him. "I know that Susan is a bit—well, a little odd, I guess."
Jake arched a brow at her understatement.
"All right, I suppose she's quite odd. I didn't realize how much trouble she was in. But I don't think she was always like this. And I know what it's like to wait for someone, wondering when he'll be back. When there's no body to bury, it's harder to accept the death."
He stood and walked over to her, putting a hand under her elbow. "Come on, sit down," he said. "I'll get your dinner." He guided her to the table.
She sent him a flimsy smile. "Are you going to get even with me for those first few meals I gave you?"
He went to the stove, where the soup kettle simmered. He chuckled. "I should, but I'm going to let you off easy tonight."
She eased herself into a chair, glad for the chance to sit. He ladled the soup into a bowl and set it before her. Then he brought a part of a chicken and a loaf of bread to the table and began cutting slices. He seemed easy and familiar with the task; the slices were uniform, and he even cut off the bread crusts.
China watched, fascinated, as he assembled a sandwich for her, as nice as any restaurant's.
He noted her interest and smiled. "Surprised, huh? When I went to sea, I spent a year or so in the galley. Ship's cooks are pretty tough; you get it right or they'll boil you for dinner."
China thought of the things that had recently passed between them and around them—the night on the back porch, the potpourri box, the emergency with Susan, the story about his mother. All this painted a picture of a complex man with many layers. A man who veered sharply from the insensitive, truant hell-raiser she'd believed him to be. He had altered her concept of him again and again in the last two and a half months.
"But I'd learned my way around a kitchen pretty well before that. Who do you suppose did the cooking when I lived on Tenth Street with Pop?"
"I never thought about it, I guess," she said, tasting the soup.
"Your old cook, Edna, and Aunt Gert showed me a few things," he said, grabbing an orange from the pantry. He brought it back to the table and pierced the rind with the edge of a spoon, releasing its fragrance. "The rest I picked up along the way. I can roast a turkey, make a stew, bake a cake."
She thought of him as a youngster, trying to manage on his own, with only Aunt Gert for female input, and her heart contracted a little. She'd lost her own mother when she was young, but she'd grown up with a loving family around her. As far as she knew, Jake and his father had always been at odds.
"Was it true, what you told Susan about your mother?" she inquired softly. She looked at him as he sat across from her, stripping off the orange peel, stripping away her last defenses. His big hands were dexterous and, she remembered, surprisingly gentle.
He breathed a slight sigh. "Yeah."
"Do you know where she is?"
He held an orange section out to her on his open hand, and she took it, putting it in her mouth. Silence stretched between them. Finally he said, "You know how it makes you feel to talk about Ryan?"
She looked up from her plate and saw his eyes darken. Nodding, she let the subject drop. The more she learned about him, the less she knew, it seemed.
He leaned back in his chair and pulled off two more orange sections. One he put on her plate and one he bit in half. "The Katherine Kirkland is going back into the water in two days. I'll be moving my gear back to my quarters then."
China put down her soup spoon, suddenly no longer hungry. "When does she sail?"
"In a week." He leveled a watchful gaze on her, as though waiting for her response.
A week. What could she say? Good? Two months ago she would have danced on the kitchen table to hear such news. Of course, everything had changed. But to admit it, to let him know that she cared, now, when his love for her had long since died—that was out of the question. Afraid that almost anything she said would betray her heart, she let her gaze fall on the fine planes of his face and maintained her silence.
Jake gave her the last orange slice and pushed his chair back to stand up. One corner of his mouth turned down in a mocking smile. "I thought you'd want to know."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late the next afternoon, China sat in the front parlor alcove, looking at the underside of her gold filigreed box. She ran her fingertips over the engraving, feeling the slight depressions that formed the initials. Jake had been out most of the day on business, and despite her best efforts to keep busy, there had been moments like this one, when she could only mope around. China rested her chin on her hand and looked out at the forest of masts lined up in the harbor. Really, it was for the best that he was going. Life would finally resume its normal pace and cadence after the Katherine Kirkland upped anchor.
And now that Harbor House was nearly ready to open, perhaps . . . perhaps she might give more consideration to Dalton's proposal. After all, as she'd told herself before, she had great respect for him, and she was fond of him. Maybe Portland would be interesting, too. It would mean leaving the family for a time, but certainly she and Dalton would come back.
Susan had lingered in her room all day, saying she was too tired to come out. Maybe she’d improve, though, once Jake was gone. Oh, yes, everything would be better.
China glanced at the engraved initials again. If Jake's leaving would solve so many problems, why did the prospect of his absence make her feel so horrible?
Just then she heard Cap's awkward, cane-supported gait on the front steps, and she went to the front door to let him in. Back from his daily afternoon walk, he was out of breath and even more red-faced than usual, as though he'd been chased to the porch by the doomed phantom ship, the Flying Dutchman.
"Cap! Are you all right?"
"There's big doings, Missy, big doings. Looks like there might be an honest-to-God riot brewing over at that boardinghouse you've been working on."
"What!"
He nodded and stumped to the chair that sat in the hall between the front and back parlors. Taking off his cap, he fanned his face, ruffling his thin hair.
"Aye. Seems one of those goddamned crimpers stole a man last night and dumped him on a ship that lay at anchor at Clatsop Spit. Came first light, he jumped overboard and tried to swim to a fishing boat nearby. He didn't make it." He reached into his pocket and produced a big red handkerchief to blow his nose with a honking blat.
"You mean he drowned?" she asked.
"That he did, Missy. He sank like a bag full of rocks."
"God in heaven! Then what?"
Though his face was no longer as florid, he still hadn't quite caught his breath. "How about a drop of brandy before I tell you the rest? I'm stove in."
She hurried to the liquor cabinet in the front parlor and brought him a glass and the brandy bottle.
"Bless your good Irish soul, Missy," he said, and poured a measure down his throat in one gulp. Thus fortified, he continued. "The fishing boat skipper was able to recover the body. He brought it in and reported the death. I guess the dead man was one of the Finn lads from Uniontown. With a wife and two little ones left behind." He held his glass out to her, which she dutifully refilled, and he took another drink. "When the word got around—and it didn't take long, believe me—that Williams fella got some townsfolk together to march to the mayor's office to protest."
"Dalton Williams?" she said, aghast.
"Aye. They were ranting and raving, 'No more shanghaiing, no more shanghaiing.' But some sailor-runners tried to stop them. When I started for home, Williams was piloting his group to the boardinghouse, and the sailor-runners were on their heels."
"Didn't anyone call for the police?" she asked, tempted to take a drink of the brandy herself.
Cap unbuttoned his coat with stiff fingers and felt around in his pockets for the meerschaum. "Even if they did, you know it would do nary a bit of good. The law tends to look the other way when it comes to shanghaiing, the lousy bastards."
Yes, she thought, and that was why the Sailors Protective League was formed. Well, there was nothing to do but go to Dalton. Of course he was capable, but she couldn't stand by and let him face this alone, not after all they'd been through together for the league.
She put the brandy bottle in his hand. "Here, Cap. Why don't you go out to the kitchen and get yourself some hot coffee to make a toddy? That'll warm your bones."
"Oh, trying to sidetrack me, eh?" He gave her a sharp look. "You're a pretty smart woman, Missy, but I'm not so old and feeble that I don't know my barnacles from my binnacles. And if you're thinking of going to that boardinghouse, you're letting yourself in for a peck of trouble, I can tell you."
China affected what she believed to be an innocent expression, then averted her eyes from his probing gaze. "Don't worry about me, Cap. You know I'd never do anything so dumb. Besides, I have Susan to look after."
"Aye, well—" He sounded unconvinced but apparently was willing to let it drop. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and looked at the brandy bottle. "Maybe a toddy would be just the thing to cure what ails." With considerable effort, he hoisted himself out of the chair and took a couple of hobbling steps toward the kitchen. Then he turned and looked back at her. "I can give you but one bit of advice, Missy: keep your head down and your ass covered. It's not as much fun, but you'll live longer."
*~*~*
China raced toward Harbor House with no particular plan of action in mind; it was simply her duty to be there. Her low heels rumbled hollowly over the plank sidewalk, and she pressed a hand to the ache developing in her side.
But when she caught sight of the mob in the street up ahead, she slowed her headlong rush, pulling her cloak tighter. The odor of stove oil reached her nose. With daylight waning, several in the crowd carried blazing torches, their smoky flames gleaming brightly against the darkening sky. She felt the anger emanating from them, and as she cautiously drew closer, she saw that the people in the street were merely an overflow of those who were crammed into the front yard. A low, angry buzz ran through them, but their attention was focused on the front of the house. She recognized the impassioned, stentorian voice of Dalton Williams, carried on the wind currents.
China sidled around to the front yard, hovering on the fringes of the throng. Front windows that had previously been hidden behind the shrubbery were now visible. Apparently Willie had made good progress with the yard work. From her place in the back, she couldn't see much except Dalton's head as he paced back and forth on the porch.
". . wife and two children who'll never see him again. This man had his whole life ahead of him, but it was cut short by the greed of men in expensive suits, to whom a man's life means nothing—nothing—and by politicians who allow this kidnapping and murder to continue!"
China detected a powerful, frank edge of emotion in his voice that surprised her. A thrilling, forthright speaker, Dalton had never resorted to theatrics to win an audience's sympathy, and she wondered why he was doing it now. But then, as if to answer her question, the crowd shifted just enough to reveal the cause of his reaction. On the porch flooring at his feet lay the gray, lifeless form of a man, obviously the drowning victim. The Finn had a full head of thick blond hair that, upon first glance, made China's heart turn over in her chest.
She stepped up on a nearby carriage block to get a better view.
Dalton stopped pacing and raked a hand through his hair. "We'll never make sense of Frans Hakkala's pointless death. But, by God, let him not have died in vain. Raise your voices to make the politicians hear you, the judges, the police. Save your sons and your brothers, and the hearts of your women. Because the crimps are out there—right now, tonight, tomorrow. In broad daylight and in the night's darkest hour. And next time they may come for you!"
He leaned over and spoke a few words to the two men closest to the edge of the porch, and put a consoling hand on the shoulder of each of them. Then they climbed the steps and lifted the blanket-wrapped body to bear it away.
A respectful silence descended upon the crowd as a path opened for the pallbearers.
From the other edge of the group, a malevolent voice rang out, "You'd better sleep with one eye open, Williams, because you could be next."
China whipped her head around toward the direction of the speaker, but could see nothing. Almost immediately after, a brick arced across the yard, smashing a front window.
The mob's angry buzz grew to a deafening roar of fury, and the mass erupted into total confusion, violent and frightening. Which were friends and which were foes was impossible to ascertain in the chaos. China hadn't envisioned a scene like this. She knew she ought to stay out of the way, but when she saw that brick and heard the glass shatter, she jumped forward, outraged. How dare these mindless, uncaring barbarians damage Harbor House, the object of painstaking work and worry? They were completely out of control, attacking like wild animals that had picked up a blood scent. She saw, and heard, an axe handle swing down upon the head of a man standing far too close to her, making a sickening pulpy thump, like a broken watermelon.
She tried to fight her way through the crowd to Dalton but was pushed back again and again. In the falling twilight, the torches glittered around her, bobbing like gargantuan fireflies. Over the shouting and swearing, she heard more glass breaking. Finally, miraculously, Dalton saw her and struggled against the tide to reach her.
"China," he shouted over the din, "you shouldn't have come. This has gotten out of hand."
