A Light For My Love, page 23
"But the house—they'll destroy it."
They became separated again by the surge of the crowd that wedged between them and widened the breach. Fearing not only for the house, but also for their safety, she tried to find her way to the edge of the pandemonium. But with the darkness and the moving sea of humanity surrounding her, she was losing her sense of direction. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, flying free from its pins.
Suddenly China felt a hand grab her arm, and she swung around, ready to wrestle free from whoever held her, by whatever means it took. She turned and saw Jake, his jaw tight. The orange torch flames reflected in his narrowed eyes and gleamed on his blond hair.
"I might have known I'd find you here!" he shouted over the noise, fury in every line of his face. "Did that goddamned jackass Williams bring you down here? Is he trying to get you both killed?"
China would have challenged his remarks, but things were moving around her so quickly that she felt as if she was being sucked into the whirlpool of the shouting, angry mob. Real terror began to envelop her, and she was grateful for his strength beside her. That feeling of safety that she'd known before with him returned now.
Jake put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him protectively while he looked up to scan the nearby crowd for Dalton. When he spotted him, he shouted for him in a voice trained to carry over the roar of a gale. "Williams! Over here!"
Dalton plowed a path to them. "Did you come down to join the party?" he snapped at Jake. The three of them were pushed together by the swarming pack as it lunged and fell back.
Jake glanced behind him when someone bumped him, nearly knocking him over. He turned back to Dalton, his expression venomous. China felt certain that if he could have gained enough room in the tightly packed mass, he would have pulled his fist back and smashed Dalton's face.
"This is no place for China. You take her home," Jake ordered, raising his voice over the surrounding roar. "I'm going to my ship to keep an eye on her. God knows what you've started with this flashy stunt."
"Look, Chastaine," Dalton started, bristling at Jake's commanding tone. "I'm not one of your hands that you can—"
"Get her out of here, right now, mister."
"Stop it, both of you!" China demanded. Ignoring the press of bodies around them, the two men stared at each other in a fierce battle of wills, rage in their eyes. Finally, Dalton grabbed China's hand and pulled her out of Jake's embrace.
"Jake," she called, "aren't you coming with us?"
But as soon as a gulf opened between them, the mob rushed in like the ocean into a tidal pool. China lost sight of Jake, and Dalton maneuvered them down the street.
"You can't just leave!" she said. "Don't sacrifice everything we've worked for just to see me home."
"We're doing what he wanted," Dalton answered as he elbowed a man out of his way. "I have to get you away from here. And I'm coming right back."
As he pulled her from the brawl, China twisted around, trying to see over her shoulder. "Dalton, Jake could be killed," she declared.
"Not Chastaine," he said. "He knows how to take care of himself."
They trudged over the sidewalk, and China saw frightened faces at the windows of the houses they passed. She was rattled herself and wished she could sit down for a minute to get the strength back in her legs.
All the while, Dalton kept up a steady, intent monologue, thinking aloud more than speaking to her. He seemed exhilarated by the energy and anger of the people they'd left at the boardinghouse, and his mind raced forward with plans.
"A few more demonstrations like this and they'll have to take us seriously. I just need to keep these people incited—Christ, I hope that a poor chump's death isn't the only thing that will budge them from their apathetic asses. If the Astorian prints a story about this—"
Distracted, he kept her hand in a hard grip and dragged her along as though she were a child. When they neared the house, China looked up at the second-floor hall window and saw that it was dark. She hadn't had a chance to light the lamp before she left.
Dalton took her as far as the front steps. "Well, I've got to go back. I can't leave Harbor House alone. Anything could happen. And those people need a leader."
"Those people are trying to tear the house down!" she emphasized, trying to tuck up her hair.
He shook his head. "No, it wasn't one of our group who threw the brick. It was one of Turk's men."
She put a hand on his arm, horrified. "You mean they were there too? Dalton, please be careful. You could be hurt, or arrested, or—"
"Arrested," he said, seizing upon the word. His cobalt eyes gleamed speculatively. "That might have some value. I'll have to give some thought to that."
"I don't think that would be a good idea—"
He leaned forward suddenly and pecked her cheek. "Thanks, China. You shouldn't have come tonight, but I'm glad you did."
He trotted down the steps, and she watched him as he ran under the gaslight on the corner. Then he disappeared into the night.
*~*~*
China sat at the kitchen table, then rose and went to the back door for what seemed like the hundredth time since Dalton had dropped her off.
The yard was silent and dark except for the whisper of rain falling on the trees. The wall clock marked the time. Ten forty-five. It had been hours since she last saw Jake, just before he was engulfed by the flood of insane humanity swirling around him. Had he escaped that morass and made it back to his ship? Worry and dread had her listening to every creak the house made, wondering if she heard footfalls on the back steps.
She scolded herself for not having enough courage to go down to his ship at the waterfront to see if he was safe.
Just as she sat down again, she heard a key scraping in the lock. She jumped out of her chair and flew to open the back door. When she saw Jake standing on the porch, she bit back a scream of horror.
"Oh, God, Jake," she exclaimed, pulling him into the kitchen when she thought he might topple over. Wet and dirty, his heavy blond hair was darkened by water and blood in a gory mix that ran down his face in thin streams. Sometime during this endless night he'd lost his coat, and he stood before her in a torn, rain-soaked shirt and dungarees. His clothes smelled of smoke, and his face was sooty. He lifted his eyes to look at her with an expression of silent appeal and such utter exhaustion that she hoped she could control the tears that threatened to make her voice shaky. She thought her heart would break just to look at him.
"What happened?" she asked in a spare whisper. Not waiting for an answer, she grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face, trying to mop up the blood and rainwater to determine the extent of his injuries. She took his hand and held it on the towel, then turned to reach for her shawl. "I'm going for the doctor."
He sank into a chair and closed a hand on her skirt to stop her. "No, don't go. I was going to go back to the Katherine Kirkland, but I wanted to see you—uh, so you could fix this. I'll be all right."
"But you're hurt," she said.
"Please, China. You can take care of it."
She hesitated, but maybe he was right. She really didn't want to leave him anyway. "Okay," she agreed. Then, eyeing him for a moment, she went to the pantry and brought back a bottle and a glass. "Here, drink this."
"Thank you," Jake whispered and uncorked the whiskey bottle, not bothering with the glass. He tipped his head back and tossed a swallow down his throat.
China gave him a questioning look. He nodded and she moved doser, letting him clutch her skirt in his fist again while she examined his scalp. The significance of this wasn't lost on her. Jake was a natural leader, accustomed to being in command. She'd never known him to show any apprehension or weakness. To hold on to her skirt like a child was a kind of surrender for him.
The one wound she found looked to be just a nasty gash, but she'd have to get him washed off to see what other damage had been done.
"How did this happen?" she asked, gently probing his head, feeling for swelling.
He touched a careful hand to his scalp and looked at the blood on his fingertips. "I don't know for certain. A lot of angry, yelling people were in the street, with all kinds of weapons. Well, you saw what it was like. At least no one was shot, I don't think. After a while I couldn't tell who was fighting who. I'm not sure they could, either. There was a fire," he said wearily, then took another drink. "I can't say how it started. But the boardinghouse caught first, then the next two houses. I knew I had to stay."
China stared at him. "Is it gone? The boardinghouse, I mean?"
He shook his head. "Williams and I managed to keep it under control until the fire department got there. There's some damage, but it can be fixed."
Relieved, she looked into his tired eyes.
"Thank you, Jake. I—I know how you feel about the league and—well, thank you." She resumed sifting through his hair, searching for other wounds. "Um, how was it that you found me there?"
She felt him flinch when she touched a tender spot on his scalp. "I was at the Blue Mermaid when I heard about the riot. News like that travels fast. I figured you might be foolish enough to jump into the thick of it, and I was right."
"Oh," she murmured, not entirely displeased, despite his unflattering observation. "Do you think you're hurt anywhere else?"
He reached up and stopped her hands, pulling them away to hold between both of his own. Through the soot and blood, she saw his earnest expression.
"China, listen to me. You've got to stop working with Williams. Next time it could be your house that burns. And it wouldn't be just you who got hurt. Think of Aunt Gert and Cap and Mrs. Price. Think of having no place to live at all."
China bit her lower lip, his words painting a hideous picture in her mind. She could imagine yellow-orange tongues of flame licking out through every heat-shattered window, the roof crashing in, the family trapped. But then she thought of that poor man this afternoon who had drowned trying to escape the slavery that had been imposed on him.
Right now, though, none of that mattered. She had to take care of Jake.
"We can talk about that later. Do you think you can climb the stairs?" she asked. "We need to clean you up."
After a moment he gathered what strength he had left and hoisted himself out of the chair. Too tired to stand straight, he seemed shorter than usual to her. He put his arm around her waist as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and she led them up the back stairs. That arm at her waist became heavier with each step they took until they reached the second floor.
China steered him into the bathroom and sat him down on a low upholstered bench. "You can take a bath after I look at your head, but I need to wash your hair now so I can see what I'm doing. If I push this bench to the tub for you to sit on, do you think you can manage it?"
He made a face of some kind; it was hard to tell through the soot. "I guess," he replied. He stood and she moved the bench. He reached for his shirt buttons with hands that looked as heavy as lead and were no more effective. Finally China nudged them aside and opened the buttons. She moved behind him and stripped off his wet, bloody shirt, the sleeves turning inside out as they peeled away from his muscled arms and shoulders. The chain holding his Saint Nicholas medal winked at the back of his neck in the gaslight.
She tossed the ruined garment into the corner and, pulling a towel from the towel bar, pointed him toward the tub. "All right, come sit down over here and—" His bare, muscled arms came into full view and she stopped dead, her breath suddenly gone from her lungs. She put a hand to her throat as she stared at his left bicep. Jake turned to look at her and followed her gaze to what she'd found.
It was a tattoo. Not so odd—lots of sailors had tattoos of all kinds of things. Sweethearts' and wives' names, nude women, hearts, serpents, anchors, crucifixes to guarantee last rites in case of fatal illness or accident. But Jake's tattoo was nothing like those. This was a personal talisman that he carried with him, apparently in hopes that it, in turn, would eventually carry him back to Astoria.
The needle of the tattoo artist, in thousands of punctures, had driven black ink under Jake's skin to draw an accurate reproduction of the lamp in the hall window. It was encircled by the words LIGHT THE LAMP FOR ME.
China lifted her eyes to meet Jake's. He moved away self-consciously and slumped on the bench with his back to her, his head down. She heard him sigh, then he spoke. His usually smooth, rich voice sounded tired and papery, as though he recounted an ancient tale.
"It was that first trip out. We'd been around the Horn twice, counting both voyages, and we anchored in San Francisco. We were so glad to be back in America, and Quinn wanted to celebrate. So we went ashore and stopped in a lot of dockside bars. After a while, we were three sheets to the wind and the fourth one shaking. Quinn found, um, a lady to keep him company, so I left him to walk the waterfront and clear my head."
He shivered and China saw goose bumps rise on the broad plane of his back. She wanted to cover him with the towel, but something about the sound of his voice stopped her.
He went on. "I walked for a long time and it got pretty late. It was way past midnight by the time I decided to start back for the ship. The streets were quiet, and even a lot of the saloons had closed up. I felt, I don't know, lost or something that night, like I didn't have a home anywhere in the world. All those dark windows . . . Then up ahead I saw a window with a light in it, and I thought about your lamp, like I had every day since the morning we left. But this light turned out to be in a tattoo parlor. I walked in and drew a picture of what I wanted. When I walked out, I had this." He turned his head and looked down at the tattoo.
China stared at the shadows under his shoulder blades, curved and shaped with muscle. With the benefit of hindsight, she was beginning to regret very much that he'd ever left. Maybe all of their lives would have been different if he and Quinn had stayed. Maybe if Jake had spoken up, if she'd known how he felt . . .
He shivered again, making the gold hair on his arms stand erect, and this time she stepped forward to drape the towel over one of his shoulders. She perched on the high edge of the tub next to him,, but he kept his eyes on the floor. The soot on his face muted his expression. Much as she wanted to sit here, just to be near him, she knew he was cold and she had to tend his wounds. She stood and pulled an enameled pitcher from the corner cupboard, then filled it under the taps.
"Here, let's clean you off," she said quietly, and eased his head forward. She gave him a bar of castile soap to wash his face. Then she poured the warm water through his grimy hair and gently lathered it with the soap. He leaned his arms on the rolled edge of the tub, dropping his forehead to rest on them. His Saint Nicholas medal clanked against the porcelain. She felt the stiff, tight muscles in his neck. Pulling his chain aside, she kneaded his neck and shoulders, using the warm lather to smooth her firm strokes. He uttered a wordless sound of relief.
Tired and hurt though he was, she felt a deep sense of intimacy as she touched him, and a foolish, distressing desire to kiss his arm where it bore the tattoo of her lamp.
She moved her hands higher to massage his head lightly. The suds were gray with soot, except in two places, where they were tinged faintly pink as well.
"Jake," she murmured. "Why did you leave Astoria? I didn't know how you felt, or what you thought. Couldn't you have tried to tell me?"
He lifted his head to look at her, his expression hard and cynical. She felt color creep into her cheeks.
"Oh, sure," he said. "You could barely stand to be at the same dinner table with me. And you were busy with your tea parties and that little pimple, Zach Stowe."
Maybe that was true. If he'd stayed, would her opinion of him have been magically transformed? After all, seven years earlier, she had believed she
would marry Zachary Stowe, and Jake Chastaine had been just one of Quinn's stray-dog friends.
How could she have been so damnably blind? So wrong about everything? It made her heart ache to listen to him talk about his love for her in the past tense, as a thing now obsolete that had never had a chance to really live.
He let his head drop again, and continued, "Besides, I did try to tell you. With that gold box. I guess it was my fault for not having the guts to sign my name on the note." He lifted his shoulders in a kind of reclining shrug. "But it's just as well that you didn't know. It wouldn't have worked, you and me. Pop was probably right about that."
She reached for the pitcher to rinse his hair, pouring water slowly through the clean, pale strands. She noticed that underneath, where the sun hadn't touched it, his hair was the same sandy color it had been when he was a boy. Lifting the towel off his shoulder, she blotted the dripping mass.
"Your father said that? You talked about me?" She put the stopper in the tub drain and turned on the taps. Then she picked up some cotton wool and got the bottle of witch hazel from the cupboard.
Jake paused a moment, as though searching his memory for the words. "Yeah. Pop told me to stay with my own kind where I belonged, and away from you. A highborn lady would do me no good, he said. I didn't want to believe him—Christ, we had some fights about it. But I suppose he knew what he was talking about."
"Good heavens, why? I've never met your father." China was annoyed to learn that she'd been the topic of a heated debate over a reason she'd known nothing about, then judged and condemned. She stood behind him, carefully dabbing at gashes on his scalp with the antiseptic. They'd stopped bleeding, but at one point she heard Jake's hissing intake of breath when she touched a tender spot.
"Does the name Bedford mean anything to you?" he asked.
"Yes, they're a wealthy Portland family. I met them once when they visited Astoria, but I was just a girl at the time."
His shoulders drooped ever so slightly. "Years ago they used to spend their summers here. Dr. Bedford would take a house for his wife and daughters, then come down on the weekends."
“One of the daughters was a rebellious freethinker. She loved to sneak away from her boring, ladylike sisters to walk along the docks and watch the fishing boats come in. That was how she met Pop. He was twenty-three.
