Silver huntress, p.14
Silver Huntress, page 14
But that he was still alive!
No, she reminded herself sternly. Sir Malcolm said he only might be alive, not that he was alive.
And that was what worried her the most.
If he was still living, she could only draw two conclusions: that his wounds were not as serious as she’d thought, that she’d mistaken what had happened in the heat of battle; or that the entire scene had been played out for her benefit only to deceive her. It was, she reflected, rather curious he should appear just at that moment, just when Gaines was coming at her from the opposite direction. It could very well have been coincidence, but there was Deery and his story. And his so obvious emotional turmoil, his earnestness. That could not have been a lie. He was the sort of man who was direct, as he’d been at dinner that evening so long ago. He went directly after what he wanted, without subterfuge, without secrecy.
She put her hands to her head and moaned aloud.
None of it made any sense. None of the white man’s world made any sense. She cried out for her father to help her, for Suncryer, for Greydove, and hearing nothing in return, fell onto the bed weeping.
An hour later Katie brought her dinner and sat with her while she ate. They said very little. Katie attempted to tell her stories about Barlow and the other servants, but her funny tales fell on deaf ears; she told Samantha how she’d managed to peek at the evening paper and saw that there would indeed be a war in America, that some of the states calling themselves the Confederates were already breaking away from the Washington government; she tried to explain that England was in a quandary over the affair since much of her cotton and other raw materials came from the South, so she was inclined to support the efforts to establish a new country. On the other hand, there was a great deal of sympathy for those attempting to end the custom of slavery. All of it was causing a great deal of noise in Parliament, and it didn’t help that the Queen’s husband, the Prince Consort, Albert, was known to be on the anti slavery side.
Yet, though Samantha heard the words and understood most of what was said, she sat by Katie listlessly. What did it matter to her and her people if the white men were fool enough to kill each other over what should have been a simple solution? Her entire life was in shambles, and the white world could share a large part of the blame.
Katie left when the platters were empty and the wine drunk.
Samantha, moving as if she were in a trance, shed her clothes and slipped under the coverlet. She was prepared to have nightmares, prepared to remain awake until dawn trying to put the pieces of what she’d heard together, but her weariness and weakness was such that she quickly fell into a deep slumber, undisturbed until Katie returned with her breakfast tray.
And news.
“There’s someone downstairs waiting t’see you,” she said with a cunning smile.
Samantha, who had not left her bed, waved a heavy hand. “I do not want to see anyone, Katie. Tell them please not to wait.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can do that,” Katie said. “I don’t know if I dare.”
Stinging words of rebuke were swallowed when she realized her friend was fairly bursting with her news. A frown, a sideways glance, and suddenly her eyes widened. “Katie,” she said, throwing aside the coverlet. “Katie, is it—”
Katie nodded so quickly her hair fell over her eyes. “Yes, yes, he came about an hour ago, I think. I heard him in the parlor with Sir Malcolm. They were arguing about something. Not yelling, mind you, but there were some strong words passing between them. I would have heard more, but old Barlow came round and chased me off.”
Samantha leaped from the bed and grabbed a steaming buttered biscuit from the tray. As she ate she had Katie rushing from wardrobe to closet, fetching a summer-white dress, her shoes, her stockings, changing her mind when she saw the high neckline and grabbing yet another that would leave most of her shoulders bare and showing just enough of the swell of her breasts to be fashionable. Though she was still uncomfortable with the dress’s design—the silly little bows along the neckline and around the waist, the flowers folded into the pleats of the skirt—she did not care this morning.
William Stanhope was back. At long last he had returned. He would be able to tell her the truth of what Deery had said. He would know if the rumors about James’s survival were true or false. And he alone, save for Katie, would be able to make her smile. She had little conception of exactly what he did for Deery; she only knew that whatever it was took him away for great periods of time, sometimes for months on end. But when he returned he was filled with stories of his travels, filled with an enthusiasm for seeing her that she was unable to resist. It bothered her in her quieter moments that she might be unfairly leading him on, but there were other times when she tried to make clear that she valued his friendship highly … and no more.
He seemed to understand, and to accept, and while he might have been disappointed, it never stopped him from returning to her at every opportunity.
And now … now he was waiting for her, appearing suddenly as he always did, and filling her with an excitement that had doubled in intensity because of her confusion. In record time she was dressed, hurrying down the hallway toward the stairs while Katie, giggling and trying to give a last-minute brushing to the black tresses, followed. They almost tripped over the second-floor landing and had to hold each other tightly for a moment before they regained their composure. And once done they descended to the foyer, where Sir Malcolm Deery was waiting. Smiling. Patting his hair into place and smoothing a palm down his lapels.
“Samantha,” he said cheerily. “Samantha, I suppose Katie has spoiled my surprise.”
She nodded once, and Katie headed downstairs to the kitchen. “She did. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” he said expansively. “And you certainly look much better this morning, my dear.” He examined her closely. “Do you feel all right?”
“Yes.”
“I trust you will accept my apologies for … for my behavior yesterday.”
She hurried down the last steps and took his hands in hers. “Sir Malcolm, I have much to think about. But I do not blame you for what happened. Please do not think that I do.”
Impulsively he kissed her cheek, then he gestured toward the closed double doors. “Do not tire yourself, my dear,” he warned. “He will be in London for several weeks now, so there’s no need to spend hours in gossip.” With a flourish, and a roguish wink, he slid aside the doors and waved her in.
The moment she stepped over the threshold the doors closed behind her, and Stanhope, splendid in a dove gray suit, rose from the sofa to greet her. She crossed the large room hurriedly, and he took her hands to bring her to the sofa, to the cushion beside him. Then he stared, the black of his eyes warm and kind.
“I understand,” he said at last, “that you’ve been out and about while I’ve been gone.”
And once the introductory words were spoken, they fell into a familiar pattern of rapid questions and rapid answers, neither really hearing what the other was saying, both content in the fact that each had survived their separation unharmed. Yet, before long, Samantha was on her feet and striding nervously around the room. Her hands brushed over the burgundy-colored leather chairs and the mahogany tables, along the white-painted wainscoting and the thick, green-veined marble mantel of the huge fireplace facing what seemed to be an entire wall of high casement windows. Without preamble she told him what Derry had related in the park, her eyes pleading for denial, her heart sinking when she saw the doleful expression on his face.
She sank into a chair and stared blindly at the hearth.
Stanhope quickly placed himself at her side. “Samantha, I had hoped, I had prayed he would wait until my return before telling you this. It wasn’t right for him to do it. You’re not strong enough.”
“And how long would you have waited?” she flared. “I am not like a child, William. I may not be … I may not know all your customs, but that does not make me a child. This is a thing I should know. Would you wait until my hair is white and I have few winters left before you said anything?”
He rose and leaned a forearm on the mantel. “As usual, you have the best of me, Samantha,” he said contritely.
“And … and the story?”
He nodded regretfully. “Every damnable word of it is true. But Malcolm was not the only coward, don’t you see? I was a part of it. I…” He stopped suddenly and averted his face. “I who care so much about you, Samantha, should have done what was right instead of thinking of my own skin.”
“It is done,” she said bitterly. “There is nothing you can do that will bring any of it back.”
“But you think the less of me for it.”
It was her turn to look away, into her lap where her hands wrestled each other uncontrollably. “I think … I think there is nothing I can do about it either. I think you have paid for what you did, for what you did not do. And you must know this about the Utes, William.” She looked up and pinned him with a stem gaze. “They were not only going to steal our food and our horses. They could not come so close to us and not try to do … what they did. We have been enemies since the First Man, and…” She shrugged.
“But we could have warned you,” he whispered.
“It would have done no good.” She forestalled his interruption with another hard look, one that softened almost instantly. “There was drinking and dancing and … it would have been the same in the end. I have thought much about it. I can see how it could be no other way.”
“Remarkable,” he said, the single word exploding in relief. “You are quite a remarkable woman, if I may say so.”
“There is more,” she said. “He told me about James. That James may still be alive.” A plea slipped into her voice. “How can he know this, William? It is so far away, and I know what I saw. How can he know this thing?”
Stanhope pushed away from the mantel and hesitated before yanking on the brocade bellpull at its side. He motioned for her patience and when Barlow appeared in the doorway asked for some tea and biscuits. The butler’s blank expression did not alter at the unusual request. He merely bowed slightly from the waist and vanished. Stanhope then walked to the nearest window and looked out.
“It’s a lovely day, don’t you think? A bit on the chilly side, though. In the country the leaves are already beginning to turn. You and I should take a ride there someday.”
“Could we really?”
“Yes. Yes, and I think it should be soon. Before it grows too cold.” He leaned forward. “My heavens, there’s Baroness Millier.” He chuckled. “She’s an odd sort of woman, you know. Have you ever met her? No, I don’t suppose you have. Malcolm will have nothing to do with her.”
Samantha, half-turned in her chair to watch him, understood he was only filling the time until Barlow returned, but his prattling was swiftly grating on her nerves. She tried once to silence him, but he ignored her.
“She has a silly habit, the baroness does,” Stanhope said. “She likes to sing.” He turned around abruptly. “It doesn’t matter where she is, when the mood strikes her she breaks into the most unbelievable songs. And would you believe she dances as well? I’ve seen it. She’ll be perfectly fine at dinner, talking with anyone who’ll listen, and then, before anyone can stop her, she starts that infernal singing and begins to dance about like some … some—”
At that moment Barlow returned with the tray, and Stanhope waited until it had been placed on the tea table and they were alone. Then he grabbed a scone from a plate and made to take an immense bite. Samantha, however, was too quick. On her feet, she had a grip on his wrist before he could step away.
“William,” she said tightly. “You cannot do this thing to me. What about James? How can Sir Malcolm know he is still alive?”
Stanhope lowered his hand, then his eyes. “He knows, Samantha, because I’m the one who told him.”
FOURTEEN
It was in New Orleans, Stanhope told her after she had virtually collapsed onto the sofa. Every year he made at least one trip to the port city to oversee the buying of the cotton crop. Deery had a purchasing agent, but he always preferred to have a man direct from London on the scene to be sure he wasn’t being saddled with poor quality. And Stanhope was that man.
The last stay there was the most difficult one. With talk of war filling the air, many English merchants were beginning to feel the first stir of panic. If cotton and other exports were cut off, a fair number of wealthy men would lose their shirts, not to mention those less well off who worked in the mills and other industries that depended on cotton to survive. So Stanhope had to tread lightly, soothing plantation owners’ fears that Britain would side with the Union, against the South, without actually committing himself one way or the other.
“I’m not used to that sort of verbal footwork,” he said. “I’d rather deal with an Irishman than those fool Southerners the way they are now. And what’s worse … well, that’s another story. The point of this is, I spent a fair amount of valuable time at dinner with these people, playing the genial foreign host and keeping my ear cocked for substantial news. Deery had wanted me to go to Washington on my way back, but you can imagine that the English are not precisely welcome in that city these days.”
At dinner one evening, he was joined by the riverboat pilot who had taken them from St. Louis to safety after the Skywater incident. When the meal was over, the two of them retired to Stanhope’s hotel room for a few more drinks and some solid talk about the prospects, good or ill, that faced the Confederacy. During that conversation the pilot, in all innocence, asked why he’d been told only the Englishmen, an Indian woman, and two ruffians had escaped the massacre. Stanhope protested. There were, in fact, only the five of them.
“‘Tain’t so,” the pilot said, pulling at his thick handlebar mustache. “Heard things up St. Joe way.”
“Well, what is it, man?” Stanhope demanded, trying to imagine who else could have escaped that slaughter.
The pilot had clearly been enjoying Stanhope’s discomfort. He poured himself another drink and held the glass up to the gaslight before downing the whiskey in a single gulp.
“Captain,” Stanhope said, “if it’s money you’re after…”
“Wouldn’t mind it,” the pilot agreed.
Stanhope reached for his wallet and pulled out a sheath of Confederate bills. The pilot instantly shook his head.
“Nope. Gold, m’be, or silver. Ain’t got much use for paper money these days, Union or Confederate.”
“All right,” he agreed. “But only after I hear what it is you have to say. I don’t buy a bale without checking it first, I don’t buy a story without hearing it first.”
Seeing Stanhope’s resolution, the pilot refilled his glass and told him there were rumors flying from port to port from trappers, guides, and even a few army scouts. Too many of them to be discounted as mere fancy. Since they all began with wildly disparate accounts of what had happened in Colorado, the pilot was fascinated since he was one of the few men in the country who knew the truth of it. He also knew Stanhope would be returning in the spring as usual, and he would certainly want to know what was being said.
Impatiently Stanhope nodded, pulled out a purse from his jacket, and let it fall on the floor by his foot. It landed with a heavy clinking sound, the unmistakable voice of a number of gold coins. His boot covered it. The message was clear.
The pilot leaned back and looked to the ceiling. It seems, he said with a careful drawl, that a few days after the smoke had cleared over the valley the army from Laramie had ridden in, having heard stories from some Indians about a great battle there. What they found were the charred remains of all the buildings, a number of bodies, which they buried hastily and with full military honors, and absolutely no sign of livestock, children, women, or James Sinclair. A short while later, just before the snows began to fall in the high valleys, the Indians let the word out that a man was living alone on Redhawk Creek. They had stayed clear of the place because of the fighting and because they believed a number of evil spirits had claimed the land for their own. It was a place to be avoided at all costs.
But word of this lone man persisted throughout the winter. Then, in spring, he came raging out of the valley.
The Indians called him Pinto Rider, though this time they said his horse was black as midnight.
“I questioned him rather closely for many hours,” Stanhope continued. “We went over a number of the stories from all sources. Some of them were rather unpleasant, some of them clearly impossible. But I came away convinced, Samantha, that the kernel is fact. And given the name the Indians placed upon him, I cannot help but believe they are talking about Sinclair.”
Her initial reaction was one of blossoming joy. James, after all this time, after all her fears and terrible dreams, was still alive. But the joy soured quickly. She had seen too much of the fighting before she’d collapsed to believe that anyone left alive at the end was an innocent. Deery, then, had been telling her the truth. And when she looked up from her hands, her expression was cold.
“William,” she said, “I think I will be alone now.”
Stanhope nodded his understanding. “But I’ll be staying quite nearby, Samantha,” he told her. “When you are ready to receive company again, please send Katie over. I’ll tell her where I am.”
Samantha nodded. She did not follow him when he left the room and closed the doors behind him. There were voices in the foyer, but she ignored them; there was traffic busy on the street outside, but she ignored the festive air. Stanhope had explained that the pilot gave him no clue as to Sinclair’s plans. He was known, and that was enough to spread the rumors throughout the land west of the Mississippi. He could be anywhere, or he could still be in the mountains. It didn’t matter. Dead or alive he was lost to her forever.
